The Power of Friendship
by Cyberwraith9
Summary: Two friends grow older, grow closer, grow apart, and struggle to make meaning of what's happening to their lives when an old threat rears its ugly head for one last, glorius stand.  Part three of the Power Trilogy!
1. The Dramatic Opening

Here we go.

* * *

_All-Purpose Disclaimer_

Cyberwraith Nine makes no apologies for unfulfilled expectations, and reminds you (as well as anyone with actual ownership of Kim Possible and its subsequent characters, concepts, locations, and themes they being the Disney Empire, first among gods, best of the best, vilest of the vile, and all that lies between) that he does this of his own accord and for no profit. Now, having said all that, sit back and enjoy. I've got a good feeling about this one.

* * *

_"Quacker pants, quacker pants!"_

_ Kimmie bawled herself into a heap at the relentless teasings of the brown-haired girl. Her face ran slick with sorrow, and her breathing grew stuttered between tormented sobs. Her four-year-old life had never felt so miserable. The mud beneath the big oak tree blackened her knees, making her feel worse. "Quit it," she whined._

_ The brown-haired girl just laughed harder, and continued to point at the row of yellow ducks perpetually waddling across the front of Kimmie's overalls. "Look at you," she said. "You look stupid." The girl's own designer clothes joined in the mockery, shouting designer names at those less fortunate boobs around her in bold, tall lettering. Children gathered around at the show, and laughed when the brown-haired girl laughed, if only to avoid being next. "I bet your mommy helped you pick them out, huh?" taunted the brown-haired girl._

_ "Nu-uh," shot Kimmie, sniffling. It was true; she had seen them sitting in the back of the closet, leftovers of a box Nana Possible had sent over long ago when her first grandchild had come along. Her mother had shoved them far into the back, thinking Kimmie would never want to wear something so old. But Kimmie's bored explorations had oneday unearthed the very garment she now wore, and she knew on sight that it was exactly what she wanted to wear to her big, scary, first day of school. The little ducks had seemed unbearably adorable. Now she began to hate them, if only because they brought her such misery in the form of this loud-mouthed girl. "Lemmie alone!"_

_ "Make me, Carrot Head!" retorted the girl._

_ "She said leave her 'lone!" A little boy marched up to the pair, having abandoned his red rubber ball in the mud. His tiny face held a galaxy of speckles, some from the mud and some from the sun. Unruly hair the color of wheat perched atop his head, never quite agreeing with itself on which way to face. His dark eyes flashed at the brown-haired girl. "Why're you pickin' on her, anyway?"_

_ The brown-haired girl drew herself up. "I don't gotta tell you nothin'. I'm Bonnie Rock-waller, and my daddy says I don't hafta listen to pleeb-ee-ans like you." She clearly had no grasp of what the word meant, but it sounded importatant, and it drew an 'ooh' from the other children._

_ The little boy didn't budge. "I'm not a pee baby," he said. "Now leave her a'one." He looked up for a second, staring into the empty air before shooting Bonnie Rock-waller another glare. "And Rufus says you should leave her 'lone, too."_

_ "Rufus?" The brown-haired girl snickered. The children snickered with her. "I don't see nobody, 'cept you, Crazy Boy. You gonna make me? The little boy stepped forward and shoved her hard, drawing a gasp from Kimmie and the other children. Bonnie fell back into the mud alongside Kimmie, arms pinwheeling, mouth opened wide in shock. _

_For a moment, she just lay there in disbelief. Then her lips parted for the mother of all howls as she began to sob uncontrollably. She wailed and kicked and fumed at the ruining of her expensive clothes so loudly that the teacher finally noticed the children gathered on the other side of the playground. The old lady descended upon them in a second, and deduced the situation without all the fuss or muss of having to ask anyone what had happened. "Ron Stoppable," she snapped, snaring the little boy's arm in her wizen fingers. "I saw what you did, young man," she lied. "I think someone needs take a good, long time out, until he learns the difference between right and wrong."_

_Kimmie watched the old teacher drag her hero across the playground and into the classroom. The little boy put up a fuss and made a spectacle of the whole situation. At one point, he even threw himself down on the ground, making everyone laugh. Everyone except Kimmie. She just stared, continuing to do so long after the teacher pulled him through the door. She could see him sitting at one of the desks inside, staring miserably at the tabletop, and speaking on occasion to a very tall person only he could see. 'He's weird...' Kimmie thought._

_'But I like him.'_

* * *

"You are certain this will be enough? I will suffer no failures." 

Ivory walls caught and bounced the doubting words between themselves to fill the sanctum. The cavernous space held its master's voice with reverence and magnified its volume to assert his importance to the sanctum's single guest. A high, domed ceiling threw the words back down into the guest's face, making him feel ill at ease.

Towering plasma monitors stood at the greasy guest's side, his new additions to the room, and waited for their new owner's approval. So did the guest. He tugged at his starched collar and let loose with his best, safest smile. "Sir," Jack Hench told his client, "I stand by every one of my products. So you have no reason to fear, Mister Dementor."

"Professor."

Hench stopped short at the cold word. "Beg pardon?"

The man at his side hardly came up to Hench's waist, but this small technicality couldn't detract from his stature; he towered over the sanctum, regardless of his height. A glossy onyx helmet masked all but his features, which piled together in a scowl as he gazed upon the plasma screens. His thick arms linked together behind his back, broadening his barrel chest. The sheer presence he exuded kept any notions of weakness the villainous peddler might have about his newest client at bay.

"Professor," the man said again. "I have not spent years amassing wealth and power enough to take the world as my own simply to be called a 'Mister.' You will address me as 'Professor' Dementor."

Hunch tugged at his collar once more. "Yes," he said, "Of course. My apologies, Professor."

Dementor nodded. "Proceed."

Few of his clientele could intimidate Jack Hench anymore. His years in the business gave him a callous against the bizarre and frightening. Staring down the barrel of a ray gun, he could negotiate his asking price up without breaking a sweat. Hearing Dementor speak, Hench felt a chill running up his spine he hadn't felt since his early days. "As per your instructions, I've spared no expense in upgrading your security, and I've circumvented conventional means for a personal touch I think you're going to love."

"I'm particularly concerned about small intrusions. Aerial infiltration has been a problem in the past." Bitter memory pooled in Dementor's voice. "I will not suffer these any longer, either," he told Hench.

A remote control found its way to Hench's hand and altered one of the screens arrayed in front of them. Dementor's island fortress panned across the monitor: Ivory towers gleamed under the pale eye of a watchful moon; Opulent, Romanesque design fit for the twenty-first century, all within the confines of an island paradise; Massive archways connecting spires that challenged the heavens themselves.

The Master watched his realm unfold on the screen, as perfect as the day he had built it, but he didn't notice any change. Then he saw it: a tiny flash of red teased the screen, too brief to be believed until he saw another, and then another, dance in his skyline. Dementor leaned in, watching for the tiny fireflies. "What are those?"

"Those," answered Hench, with a prideful puff of his chest, "Are part of your new Sky Net Defense System." With the flick of a button, the panoramic view became a rotating schematic. The device on the screen was spherical, with tiny thrusters mounted at its rear, and a cyclopean, scarlet glare on its fore. "These are your eyes in the sky. They form an impenetrable screen of automated observation, and are directly linked to these…" Another button switched the schematic to that of four-pronged laser cannons the size of a small house. "Anything the sensor bugs detect, the auto cannons annihilate."

Dementor eyeballed the designs. An impressed noise whistled through his nose. "I approve. But you're certain…?" He cast a skeptical look back at Hench. "I thought my previous defenses impenetrable as well."

"Not to worry, sir. Whatever gaps that may exist are risk acceptable. Trust me."

* * *

Five bodies descended from the heavens. Shadows all, they made quick toward an ivory beacon dotting the seascape. They rode wings of gravity, and wore round and blackened masks over determined or fearful features.

_"You'd have to be moving at terminal velocity through one of the system's blind spots," said Hench, "If you could even find one. That would take a HALO jump with a landing window of less than a hundred feet. No one can survive that."_

The shadows fell into the island's interior at incredible speed. Windows and walkways rushed past faster than their goggled eye could follow, had they let their focus waver from the oncoming ground. They did not. The patrolling sentry drones did a double take at some perceived movement, only to catch sight of their empty wake and continue on, unperturbed.

At the last second, the five shadows flipped and landed in a crouch. Terminal velocity became a dead stop in the space of a frantic heartbeat, but nary a grunt came from any of the five. The marble pavement at their feet clicked softly at the tread of their boots, and nothing more.

Said the second shadow to the first, "Why aren't we dead, again?"

"I told you," whispered the first shadow, gesturing for the second to lower his voice. "Our suits are equipped with Inelastic Generators. The energy from the landing is dissipated harmlessly…" She watched the second and fifth shadows' heads tilt with confusion. "You don't understand a word I'm saying, do you?"

"Think of them as inertial dampeners," provided the fourth shadow.

The third shadow added, "Like on Star Trek."

A snap of the second shadow's fingers threatened their discovery. Luckily, none of the drones overhead paid the ground any mind. "See, now I get it." He lowered his goggles pointedly at the first shadow.

She rolled her eyes behind her mask. "Pardon me for not having a TV geek reference on hand."

"I forgive you," the second shadow assured her.

* * *

Dementor nodded. "Most satisfactory." A wave of his hand produced a chair, molded from the floor by unseen nanites. The marble throne rose up to catch him as he sat in front of the monitors. "So, tell me, Hench. What of my other securities?"

Irritation pulled at Hench's cheek. He disguised the twitch as a smile. A Hench Co. Product, merely satisfactory? If business hadn't been so slow (thanks in no small part to a certain, redheaded, walking SNAFU), he would have turned Dementor on his tin ear then and there. But thoughts of this fiscal quarter's dismal projections kept that smile right where it was.

Hench flipped through different schematics and images of upgrades his men had made to the island. The screens danced with laser cannons, missile drums, all-terrain tanks that flew above the ground, and a thousand other brilliant innovations that would put his company back in the black. "We've given you the Platinum Package. You now have enough firepower to repel a small army…while you wait for your own army to mobilize," he added slyly.

Dementor yawned. "All humdrum," he announced. "What concerns me is my sanctum." A dangerous look pierced his helmet, striking another chill up Hench's spine. "Mister Hench, I cannot stress enough the importance of this building's security."

"Not to worry." A map of the island appeared across the screens at Hench's whim, and zoomed into the island's center. There, the tallest tower Dementor coveted above all others grew into prominence. Rolling text began to frame its wire outline, detailing Hench's brilliance. "I saved the best for last, Professor."

* * *

Five shadows ghosted through the compound. Their shapely leader spoke in gestures, leading them on a winding path through Romanesque walkways, between obelisks of pristine stone, down lanes lined with flora both exotic and fragrant. No living soul stood in their path. The untrained eye would find no wrongs in this contemporary Eden. But the first shadow knew better.

_Every piece of tile within a hundred yards of your sanctum is wired with pressure sensors," explained Hench. "The network is controlled by one of the most sophisticated AI programs on the planet, capable of differentiating between the local fauna and any potential threats." He grinned. "If an overweight squirrel decides to attack, he'll activate a series of shrapnel cannons hidden in pop-up turrets—" Another schematic. "—and presto! Puree."_

The first shadow touched the visor of her mask. Her night vision came alive with criss-crossing grids of glowing green, detailing a sea of wiring hidden within the ground. In another few steps, they would be atop the thin pathways. Sensors, no doubt. Clever.

With wordless instructions, she halted her fellow shades. More gestures bid the third and fourth shadows forward. They pulled from their packs a wealth of equipment, which their skilled hands constructed within seconds into a grapnel gun and tripod. Twin spears protruded from the cannon, one at each end. Working together, the third and fourth chose their angle and fired, forming a narrow nylon bridge with a hiss of CO2. One end sunk into the ground behind them, while the other impacted with a quick _chink!_ on the outer wall of the sanctum.

One by one, the shadows traversed the sensor sea, crawling, hanging, from the swaying tension wire. The first shadow's visor saw fast a moat of safety around the keep: a gap in the sensors, she guessed, for henchmen to patrol. Once safely over unmonitored ground, they dropped, one by one, and sought shelter behind a corpulent shrub sculpted in the stocky scientist's effigy.

The door lay in sight. But so too did more problems.

* * *

"Assuming someone does get past that, they'll have to deal with the door."

Dementor leaned forward. He stared over steepled fingers at the zoomed schematic of his home and said, "You've doubled the guard, yes?"

Hench grinned. "Tripled. With my best, most experienced men."

* * *

"Twelve guards for one door?" hissed the fifth shadow. "That's extreme."

The first shadow had a hard time disagreeing. Numbers didn't intimidate her, but she wasn't ready to tip their hand just yet. She knew she could do it, but (loathe though she was to admit) there was another better suited to the task. "Remember," she whispered, "Low key." A pause. "Are you sure you won't need…?" When she turned, the second shadow was gone. "…help."

Surprise twisted the heads of the third, fourth, and fifth shadows in their fruitless search for the second. "Where'd he go," whispered the fifth. "Wasn't he just—"

"Shhh," the first shadow chided her, "Or you'll miss it." She crouched behind the shrub Dementor's leg, motioning for her fellows to follow suit. Their attention fell into the vigilant throng standing watch at the keep's single door. Excitement quickened the first shadow's heartbeat. A smile blossomed beneath her mask. "I love watching him work," she confessed in a ghostly voice.

* * *

"These men are a product of our new training and conditioning." Pride threatened the buttons at Hench's inflating chest, and not without justification. "Each one of them is worth a squad of your previous men."

* * *

Order reigned at the door, enforced by twelve pillars of uniformed muscle devoid of mercy. But order succumbed to chaos as two of the guards toppled forward, clutching at unseen injuries in their necks in the brief time between pain and unconsciousness. Two more fell from the same affliction before the first pair hit the ground.

The gathered shadows spotted neither the darts or their origins, nor their comrade. Then the second shadow melted from the darkness above the guards and fell between them. The air crackled with the sting of his fist. His aim was true, his blows precise; four fell, one at the end of each of his limbs, before he landed in a crouch.

Those remaining turned at the thud of their fellows' falls. A faceless demon leapt at them from the gaps in their formation. Bone cracked beneath the shadow's foot. Breath rushed at the touch of his elbow. His movement was fluid, flawless, until only one set of eyes remained to keep vigil over the door: his.

"Dude," breathed the third shadow.

"Sweet," agreed the fourth shadow.

* * *

"And the facility itself?" inquired Dementor.

Flashing schematics. "We've doubled the number of guard houses inside, and increased surveillance coverage by forty-six percent." One image surfaced above the tide of wire frames. "And of course, we've given the superstructure a face lift, starting with a two-ton solid titanium door equipped with a crypto-impervious lock. If anyone wants in, they have to talk to you."

Impressive boasts meant nothing to Dementor. "You're certain," he pressed.

"In a word? Unbeatable."

* * *

"Got it."

The fourth and third shadows hunkered by the door while their comrades hid a mountain of insensate guards in the bushes. A thin blue device hummed softly between them, and informed them in proud red letters that their algorithms had worked. Triumphant, they withdrew the jack from the door's data terminal and handed their tool back to the first shadow. She gave them both a congratulatory pat on the shoulder as the titanic gates before them rumbled open at a snail's pace.

"Let's go," said the first shadow, and led the charge in.

* * *

Dementor's satisfied nod ended the presentation. A flick of Hench's remote banished the screens into secret slots in the floor that sealed seamlessly after. "I am pleased," said Dementor.

Hench doubted that the man had ever uttered higher praise. "Thank you, Professor." The good vibes bolstered his courage, and so he asked the question burning in his mind through these past few weeks of work. "Professor, if you don't mind me asking, why the sudden, drastic increase in security?" Danger flashed back into Dementor's glare, hastening Hench to say, "Just as a matter of professional curiosity, of course. A lot of people say, 'Damn the expense.'" He shrugged. "You're the first in my experience to actually mean it."

The stocky scientist considered Hench for a moment. Whatever thoughts germinating in his head blossomed into a smile. He took Hench by the arm and led him in a ponderous gait toward the center of his sprawling sanctum. "You are good at what you do, Mister Hench. I see your reputation is well-earned." Two praises for one job? It set a new precedent in Hench's book. "And so," continued Dementor, "I will show you what your efforts have all been for."

Dementor's thick hands clapped twice as they reached the sanctum's center, a point at which the tile spiraled together into a swirling focus. That point now slid apart, bracketing into an iris which poured forth a column of golden light. Hench squinted into the beam and saw a small object rising in its core. As his eyes adjusted, he was able to decipher the object's shape.

"This," said Dementor, unveiling his treasure. His eyes shone with adulation.

The object sparking Dementor's awe flooded Hench with confusion and anger. "This?" He gestured to the silver cylinder trimmed with red. "You installed a multi-billion dollar defense network to protect your thermos? I devoted my entire operation to protect your _thermos_?"

Silence thundered at the tail of Hench's disbelief. It rotted the humor on Dementor's masked features into mildewed disgust. "This is the Pan-Dimensional Vortex Inducer," he uttered.

The name hammered Hench in the gut. He gasped, and his eyes bugged. "So this is it," said Hench. He leaned in and examined the rotating cylinder, whistling low. "It's smaller than I thought. Could it really take out an area the size of—"

"—Nevada," affirmed Dementor. "But more valuable is the nearly limitless supply of energy it can provide me." His fist rose slowly in anticipation. "And upon the completion of my latest creation, I, Professor Dementor, will—"

"Mmm-hmm." Hench stepped back. "And I'm sure it'll be fabulous. Top notch. Now I see why you needed all this protection."

The arms dealer breathed a silent prayer of thanks as Dementor's train of thought derailed off of his impending speech. "So I have your assurances," said Dementor, "That my sanctum is now impervious."

"Professor, please." Hench laughed. "Even if someone got past the sky net, the pressure sensors, the new guards, and the door, they'd have to get through the Kill-Bots stationed outside this very room."

And right on cue, the wall exploded inward. Stone and mortar showered the men, painting them white with dust. Twin robots rode the coattails of the rubble, tumbling through the air, each wrestling with suits obsidian mounted on their backs that whooped with excitement. The insect-like droids bucked, whipping titanium tendrils at their jockeys. Piston legs drove them ten, twenty, thirty feet into the air, but the riders would not be dissuaded.

The intruders grasped their steeds' sensory antennae and tugged. With a warbled screech, the machines twisted in midair. They slammed into each other, bursting into conflagration as the black-clad intruders leapt and rolled to safety. Fire and metal diced the air with white-hot fury. The twin wrecks fell to the ground and exploded again, all before the two figures landed with preternatural grace.

Dementor coughed a cloud of his sanctum free of his lungs and stood. Pieces of the room fell from his jacket. "What is this," he cried. "Intruders? Impossible!"

One intruder stepped forward. Gloved fingers worked at the edge of a full-coverage mask, peeling it away to reveal resolute features. "Actually, it is possible," crowed the intruder. Chestnut eyebrows waggled playfully. "Jim Possible."

His ally tore his mask away as well. A sour face sat beneath it. "I can't believe you got to deliver the line," Tim groused.

Jim whirled about. "Oh, you so didn't start this again," he said.

Tim's marching steps clomped and re-clomped in the echoing chamber. "Damn straight," he said. His arms folded across his infiltration harness as he squared off against his mirror image. "It isn't fair."

"We flipped a coin!" shouted Jim.

"Yeah," sniffed Tim, "Your coin. Your double-headed coin."

Jim rolled his eyes. "Only so you didn't use yours, jerk."

"Cheater."

"Whiner."

"B-student."

Jim gasped. "You take that back!"

Both boys yelped when Hench rumbled up behind them and grabbed them by their collars. An angry storm brewed in his eyes, chasing all argument from the boys' mouths. "You two," he thundered. "How did you get past all my security?"

"Pretty easily," said Tim with a shrug. Like his brother, he seemed unruffled in the hands of the man whose crowning achievement they had just undone. "I did like the bit with the tiles, though. Those were neat."

"Yeah," agreed Jim with a nod. "The hardest part was figuring out who would say the line so you two'd be distracted to give Monique a chance to get the vortex thing." Then his eyes widened as he realized his faux pas. He shared a guilty look with his brother as they both said, "Oops."

Dementor spun with apoplectic speed and caught sight of a third figure dressed like the first pair mere steps from his precious Vortex Inducer. This intruder's togs clung to a curvier frame, and froze as Dementor drew from his jacket an Atomizer. "Not one step more, my dear," he warned her. He gestured with the end of his ray gun and said, "Your mask. Now."

Her shoulders slumped before she peeled her mask away. Mocha ire supplanted the dark visor and latex. "Nice one, Doublemint," she snapped to her betrayer and his doppelganger. She raised her hands, lest Dementor atomize her. "Some geniuses you two turned out to be."

"Lucky in brains," said Jim.

"—unlucky in villainous lair infiltration," Tim finished.

The Atomizer's gleaming, spiraled barrel encouraged Monique toward the twins in slow steps with hands in plain view. Hench shoved them all together and circled back to Dementor's side. He looked ready to chew the three teens apart on the spot, but Dementor was leagues ahead of Hench in anger. "You two," he snapped. "You are Possibles, no?" A rhetorical question; he could see it in their impish faces. He could smell it in that devil-may-care attitude. They reeked of meddler. "As far as I am concerned, your survival depends entirely on your next answer. Where is she?"

"Where's who?" the twins asked in playful unison.

Dementor's Atomizer quaked. "Where is Kim Possible," he demanded.

A second explosion of stonework shook the room, and Dementor found his answer riding on the back of another Kill-Bot. The insectoid machine flew dizzily on thrusters lit by blue fire, tracing a nonsensical path through a cloud of the sanctum's wall into the room. A red banner streamed behind the Kill-Bot rider's determined scowl as she choked up on her steed's delicate antennae. With a violent tug, she guided the Kill-Bot face first into the floor at Dementor's feet, forcing him and Hench to dive to safety as the powerful and insanely expensive droid collapsed into a heap of fiery scrap.

Dementor struck the tile hard. He slid across his polished floor, accumulating a thick pile of dust and debris at the shoulders. Once stopped, he cracked an eye, and felt a rush of hope; his Atomizer lay less than a foot from his face, and appeared undamaged. When he reached for it with sausage fingers, a black foot descended, smashing the Atomizer in one blow. Dementor's hopes sank as he craned his neck up to see what he already knew was there.

"What's up, Prof?" quipped Kim Possible. Her arms crossed at her chest as she stared down her nose at Dementor, wearing an infuriating look of superiority. A light film of dust clung to her stealth suit, making her seem to his awestruck eyes a living ghost whose haunting he couldn't escape. Three more appeared from behind, basking in the safety of her presence. "Hope it's okay that we just dropped in unexpected."

A sneer lit Dementor's lips as he stood and brushed himself clean. "Kimberly Possible. You must think yourself very clever to have bypassed my new security."

She smiled. "Maybe just a smidge," she admitted, indicating the measure with thumb and forefinger a hair's breadth apart.

"Hench, your security is worthless!" Dementor's fury found the sheepish salesman and burned the babbling excuses from his tongue. "You promised me Possible-proofing, and provide instead window dressing and empty assurances." Eyes narrowed, Dementor added in a growl, "When I am through with you, you will be lucky to be selling blankets to Eskimos."

The man under attack collected himself by clearing his throat. He smoothed the wrinkles out of his thousand dollar suit before plumbing its interior pocket for a glossy black remote control. "Doctor Dementor—"

"Professor!"

"Professor Dementor," he continued without pause, "When you buy the Hench Co. name, you receive the Hench Co. promise of quality. In this case," he said with a twinkle in his eye, "That means a secondary compliment of our finest Kill-Bots." With a smug look aimed at the teens, he told them, "Let's see you deal with this!" He pressed the control's biggest button. "Ha!"

Nothing happened.

He pressed it again with the same result. The button clicked beneath his thumb in staccato desperation. "I…I don't understand," he said. Sweat beaded at his brow. His thumb began to ache with the effort, all while Kim Possible and her friends stood with quizzical mockery in their eyes.

"You are trying my patience, Hench," warned Dementor.

"I don't understand," Hench said again. He rattled his remote against his palm. "There should be four more Kill-Bots—"

Laser light flitted through the wall and spacked against the sanctum's far wall. The air burned with the smell of ozone, and hummed with a roar muffled by the wall. A wail accompanied the rumble, pausing only a moment as the wall collapsed inward again, making way for a mounted Kill-Bot to spiral into the room on shrieking thrusters. Its pilot clutched the sensor antennae protruding from its head, matching the thrusters' noise with his own frantic cries. Three more of the Kill-Bots followed, spewing laser fire at their commandeered comrade.

Dementor watched more of his wall crumble and fall. "What did walls ever do to you people?" he bawled. "Haven't you heathens ever heard of a door?"

Kim seized the distraction; "Here," she said, tossing her Kimmunicator to her brothers' fumbling hands. "You know what to do." 'And so do I,' she added silently.

With practiced timing, she leapt into the air and caught hold of the lead Kill-Bot's spindly leg. The acceleration tore at her arms as she was pulled into the air on a wild and senseless course. Lasers from the other Kill-Bots nipped at her heels, which whipped about at each sudden turn. Her unwilling steed flitted near the top of the domed room at breakneck speed. One false move would turn her into a smear on the marble waiting below. And she loved every second of it.

A gymnastic flip carried her once around the metal leg for momentum, and then up to the mechanical creature's thorax. There, she found the last of her team perched at its neck juncture, holding on for dear life with his legs, jerking the antennae around without rhyme or reason. Odd as it sounded, his shrieks were source of comfort: a reminder that some things remained constant in their ever-changing world.

"Hey," she called, working her way toward the Kill-Bot's head.

The rider's billowing blond hair pivoted, revealing a frightened face of freckles. Chocolate eyes melted at the sight of her. "'Bout time," Ron Stoppable called back. He gave his antenna reins another tug that sent their ride through a loop, nearly unseating the both of them. "Y'know, James Dean made being leader of the pack look a lot easier." A laser burned past his ear as evidence, causing him to jerk the bug on a new and crazier course.

Kim reached him after a few more close calls and wedged herself behind him. Her arms reached around him and snatched one of the antennae from his grasp. "Here, let me." With a touch of sarcasm, she added, "I thought you were a ninja. What's the problem?"

"Yeah." Ron afforded her a nasty look before he and Kim ducked, keeping their heads from decorating a ceiling support strut by a narrow margin. "I must have slept through the class on kill ant-bot pressure points."

She glanced back at the trio of Kill-Bots, ignoring their photonic artillery, and saw them start to close the gap. "Turn left," she called, and jerked her grasped antenna accordingly.

"Okay," Ron yelled back, and pulled on his antenna.

"Ron, your other left."

"Oh, sorry. Right."

"No, left!"

Working together, they guided their Kill-Bot back to the glowing yellow pillar at the sanctum's center. Their pursuers continued to chase them with merciless abandon, pouring forth a deadly wave of lasers that painted the room in blackened spatters. Undaunted, the heroic duo steered their steer into a colossal dive. Advanced AI within the trialing Kill-Bots figured it out a second too late, when the teens leapt clear of an expanding ball of flaming robot; unable to turn in time, they met the same fate with an ear-splitting squeal of metal crushed on stone.

Kim landed with grace the envy of cats. Ron just landed. He readjusted his heap of limbs and aches, staring up into the golden anti-gravity field next to his head, and the prize floating within it. "Ooh! Free toy inside," he quipped. He reached up from the floor and plucked the cylindrical Vortex Inducer out of the air. "Aw, man. I think I've already gotten this one before."

Dementor stomped toward the pair. The heat of the Kill-Bot wreckage paled next to the awesome intensity of his anger. "How dare you," he roared. "Relinquish my Pan-Dimensional Vortex Inducer this instant."

Kim helped Ron back to his feet. "I would," she grunted, "If you had your own."

"Yeah, dude." Ron spun the Inducer on the end of his fingertip. "Your two weeks are up, and the library wants it back." The power to destroy the entire island hung by the mercy of his dexterity, a thought so frightening that Kim snatched the Inducer from his finger and clutched it tight. He didn't seem to notice. A distant chorus of pops and bangs caught hold of his ear, and he cocked his head to listen. "Besides, I think you've got other problems."

The sounds reached Dementor. They had tripled in number before he recognized them. "Explosions?"

Jack Hench recognized the noises a second before. After all, he had been the one to design and install the devices making them. "Those are my auto cannons. Those are my auto cannons! How?" In his confusion, his eyes happened upon the plasma screens and controls he had built for Dementor. They had been liberated from the floor courtesy of the Twins Possible, who worked upon the readout arrays with devilish delight and a small handheld computer. "You two!"

He ran at them with uncharacteristic determination. Hench wasn't a fighter, he was a businessman. Others fought on his dime so he wouldn't have to. It was how he liked it. But for those two, he would make a violent exception. Only he never got the chance, because an errant foot struck into his path and sent him tumbling into a heap. He pulled his face out of the tile to the tune of a musical chuckle.

"I don't know," Monique said. "I thought about making a 'don't be trippin'' joke, but it seemed too obvious."

"You rotten little bi—" Hench rolled up to pounce on the teen. A piece of masonry he hadn't even seen in her hand flashed across his face. With a crack of stone, he saw only the inside of his eyelids.

Monique watched him fall back to the floor. She chucked the broken piece of wall aside and sniffed. "I got one. Hit the bricks, asshole." Then she giggled. "That felt good. Like, new pair of shoes good."

The commotion drew Dementor's attention to the screens. One by one, their security readouts dissolved into static. Blissful snow bounded between the monitors, until they each took on the visage of a round-faced smile. _"What up, guys?"_

"You!" Bereft of a name to put to the face, Dementor still recognized the Possible girl's techno sidekick. "This is impossible. My firewall cannot be breached."

_"You're right,"_ the collage of Wades admitted in harmony. _"This net setup you've got is Tonka tough. But it doesn't mean beans when the Kimmunicator's hard-wired into the system courtesy of my favorite photocopies."_ His smiles grew.

Jim gave him a thumbs-up, and Tim said, "Take it, Pizza Face."

The domed ceiling shattered beneath an onslaught from outside. Huge chunks of rubble tumbled down, rocking the building. A fresh carpet of pristine stone scattered over the floor. With the roof gone, Dementor could hear the distant hammering of guns he had shelled out hard money for as they tore apart his beautiful home. "You…"

Kim grinned. "Hear that? That's the sound of your little empire crumbling." Then her demeanor grew somber. "Get used to it. Because the days of us running around, playing this little game? They're fading fast."

Dementor watched his enemies gather atop a large piece of the fallen dome. His insides clenched and drained away, leaving him cold and empty. "You will not get away with this, Kim Possible. I swear it."

"Isn't that our line?" asked Ron.

After a quick headcount, Kim turned back to Dementor with hands on hips. "It's been a blast," she said as a tremor ran beneath their feet. "But time flies, and so do we." At her cue, the five each touched a hand to their belts. Fire leapt from their boots, lifting them into the air. Monique had a moment of trouble keeping her balance in midair, but all of them took to the sky without terrible difficulty.

Dementor watched them rise up from the ashes of his sanctum. They flew up and out of his crushed ceiling with lighted steps. Their jets' flames joined those outside in painting the night sky red. Explosions shook dust free from cracks overhead, dyeing the smoke with shimmering white. "Curse you," he choked. "Curse you, Kim Possible…"

Jack Hench sat up from the floor with a groan. He rubbed his head, moaning, and examined the earthbound hell around him. "Maybe this is a bad time to talk about warranty," he said.

* * *

**Kim Possible  
The Power of Friendship**

_by Cyberwraith9_

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	2. Bueno Nacho Again

_All-Purpose Disclaimer_

Kim Possible is a registered trademark of the Disney Corporation. All characters and properties within this work of fan fiction are used without permission and for no profit. It occurs to me that no one really reads these things. Seriously, I always just skim right by the disclaimer, so why not you, right? You're probably scrolling down past the title anyway, so I can basically say whatever I want at this point. For example: What's the deal with elected officials and appointed military officers soliciting a teenaged cheerleader for help? Come on, let's be honest. In real life, these kinds of people would rather eat their own soiled boxers than ask for a fifteen year old girl's help. And another thing…

Oh, crap. You are reading this? … Forget what I said. Kim Possible is totally plausible. Now enjoy the story.

* * *

_The last of their terrible laughter still rang in Ron's ears as his eyes cracked open. Consciousness brought with it a pounding in his head and throughout his chest, as well as the blessed sight of his favorite foods, raised to proportions too prodigious even for his appetite. Visions of tacos and burritos swam in his blurred vision, leading him to the obvious conclusion; he had died, and this was his reward for a lifetime of helping the helpless._

_Ron moaned. "Is this heaven?" he wondered aloud._

_A second moan much like his drew his eyes left. As they traversed the contours of the room, he realized that this was not, in fact, his light at the end of the tunnel; rather, they were in some sort of storage facility, populated by Mexican delights better suited to giants. Somewhat of an expert on the ethnic food, Ron could tell they were not the real deal, but mere effigies made from plastic and plywood, leaned against concrete walls until their noble services would be called upon again. In the meantime, they served as his prison; he found himself suspended several feet off the ground, bound to a burrito the size of a bus, by coarse rope that cut into his arms and chest._

_There, among the ornamental food, he found his best friend tied to an enormous cactus cut-out, likewise kept from the floor by thick ropes and masterful knots. "Oh, KP," exclaimed Ron. "I thought you were down for the count!" Their final moments of consciousness rushed back to him; Eric's betrayal, Kim's defeat, and Shego's sucker punch, which still wracked his ribs with aching memories. _

_"Uhnnn…" Kim moaned. She came to quickly, sousing out their situation far faster than Ron had. Her face fell almost before she had finished coming around. Her eyes scoured the concrete. "Why couldn't I see that he was a fake," she asked, more to herself than to Ron._

_That didn't stop him from answering; "Yeah, it don't get much faker than a synthodrone, y—" He paused, coming to a sudden and violently disturbing realization. "Uhoh! You kissed a synthodrone!" That notion alone made him feel ill._

_Kim's face compacted into bitter disgust. "I never kissed him," she shot back. Ron felt immediate relief, until her scowl broke, and she admitted, "…but I wanted to."_

_Everything Ron had been feeling in the previous week came crashing down upon him. He felt as though he were trapped in the basement of a collapsing building. "Okay," he murmured, unable to look at her, "Too much info." He waited until the stabbing pain of her words dulled, and then resolved himself with a sigh. "So," he asked listlessly, "What's the plan?"_

_For the first time in a great while, Ron felt real fear, as he saw desperation blossom on Kim's face at his question. That desperation crumbled into misery just as quickly. "Ron, I…I got nothin'," she confessed._

_Her words lit fire in Ron's stomach, turning his queasiness white-hot. Ron had watched her pull miracle after miracle out of her bag of tricks his entire life, saving him more times than he could even recall. To see her reduced to this…it enraged him that a boy (or synthodrone, or whatever he was) could do this to her, or worse still, that she would let him. "That's my line," he snapped at her, "And what's more, that's quitter talk!" _

_"Drakken finally won." The words dawned from her mouth in quiet awe, drawing her mouth down at the corners with an invisible burden. Her head hung with that weight. "I should have stuck to babysitting," she gloomed. Her eyes fluttered closed._

_Ron's anger grew. "All right, KP, this pity fiesta is over," he told her. Some decisive force took hold of his voice, providing him with lines he never could have come up with on his own. "Drakken has not won. He played you. Now it's payback time."_

_Kim's manner didn't improve. She hung there like a broken doll: lifeless, cold…everything he knew she wasn't. 'He meant that much to her…' Ron realized. His soul numbed at the thought of someone she had known only a week becoming more important than he. "And y'know…" Ron began. He hesitated; he couldn't tell her now…could he? Once more, that decisive force controlled his cracking voice. But even it couldn't keep the doubt from seeping into his words: "There are guys out there that're better for you than Eric. Guys that are real, for one thing."_

_She looked at him with new hope still plagued with skepticism. "You really think there's a guy out there for me?" she asked._

_This was it. This was his moment. "Out there…" he said. "In…" Something small and pink hopped atop his ropes, chittering in greeting. "—Rufus?"_

_"In Rufus?" Kim echoed. Then her eyes brightened at the sight of their mole rat companion. "Rufus! He can get us out of here."_

_Ron didn't hear Kim giving his little buddy instructions for their escape. All that reached his ears was a single, acidic thought burned from his heart into the furthest corners of his body, until everything in him hurt. He had missed that one, perfect moment's opportunity. Would he ever get another?_

_"The other lipstick, Rufus," snapped Kim._

* * *

**Kim Possible**  
**The Power of Friendship**

_by Cyberwraith9_

* * *

"Here's to us," Kim announced, raising her waxy paper cup in toast. "And here's to kicking the high holy snot out of Dementor."

Cheers rose up from the rest of the booth in agreement, and then Team Possible drank to its success. Other patrons in the Upperton State University's Bueno Nacho cast the commotion a curious glance, but the staff paid it no mind. A post-victory celebration such as this one had become a regular occurrence over the last nine months. If anything, it was good for business.

The twins downed their drinks in one go, using the rush of sugar and caffeine to fuel smiles bright enough to light the room. "That was so cool," Tim exclaimed.

His brother slapped him on the shoulder. "Hey, remember when that greasy suit grabbed us?"

"And I was all like, 'Unhand me, foul villain!'"

Jim nodded emphatically. "Yeah, and then I was like, 'You won't get away with this, Dementor!'"

Monique's eyes rolled as she set her glass down. She shared a bemused glance with her neighbor in the booth. "Is that how it went? I must have been at a different fight."

A light chuckle joined the twins' enthusiasm. Kim saw so much of herself in them when she had been their age that it frightened her …and made her feel a touch old. "You guys did great out there," she assured her brothers. Their smiles somehow doubled, inciting one of her own. If her praise made fault lines of their faces, then this next news might rend their heads in twain. "In fact, Ron and I have a surprise for you. Right, Ron? Ron?"

Seated next to her brothers, Ron had no ears for Kim's big announcement. Instead, he and Rufus were obliterating the mountain of Mexican eatables set before them, taco by taco. The elastic latter of the pair dove into burritos still wrapped. Their crinkled wrappings would deflate as he poured out the other side, still unsatisfied, and moved on to the next without so much as a burp. Ron's approach was less amorphous, but just as direct; he held his food high above his head by the wrappings' corners and let gravity peel their papers away. The food then fell into his lurking maw, swallowed with only a cursory chew made more out of habit than necessity.

A nudge from Jim finally caught hold of Ron's attention. He looked to Kim with mouth full, and mumbled, "Whuv ub?" More taco than English exited his lips, so he swallowed the hard shell with a brief pained expression and then tried again. "What's up? Oh!" he exclaimed, catching on. While Rufus continued to devour the innocent tacos, Ron plunged a hand into his cargo pocket, in search of some surprise.

"You guys have really pulled through for us in these past few months," continued Kim. "And I want you to know how proud I am of you. How proud we are," she amended with a glance at her partner. "Right?"

"Huh? Yeah, yeah, fit to burst." Ron muttered an inventory of his pocket's contents to himself as he identified them by touch. "Yo-yo, no. Gum, no. Condommmmm…" He caught sight of a raised eyebrow each from Kim and Monique. "—mmminium pamphlets. Condominium pamphlets. Been thinking about a new place for, uh, when I move up in the world." A nervous chuckle failed to banish the girls' skepticism, but his triumphant cry at least put it on hold. "Ah! Here we go," he said, and drew forth two sleek, compact devices.

Jim and Tim took the offerings from Ron with hands aquiver. The glossy black casing of each device warped their reflected awe as the twins turned them over. "Are these…" asked Tim in a hush.

"They are," breathed Jim. He and his brother shared a shocked expression of joy. Together, they cried, "Kimmunicators!"

"Not quite," said Kim. "They're a little different from mine. Since you guys ride along as our tech support, I asked Wade to personalize them: Omni-tool, diagnostic equipment, over six million data infiltration algorithms, and whatever else he could think of."

"A Jimmunicator," said Jim, overjoyed.

"A Timmunicator," said Tim, elated. He tore his eyes away from the gift to end all gifts, and asked, "Does this mean what I think it means?"

Jim echoed his brother's hopeful tone. "Yeah, are we…?"

"It does," said Kim, "And you are." Before they could explode with delight, she added, "But only part-time, understand?" Her finger waggled at them in an unconscious impression of their mother. "This doesn't mean you can sneak onto missions when Ron and I say it's too dangerous. And if your grades start to slip, it's over. Got it?"

She doubted that they heard a single word. "C'mon," Jim said to his brother, "Let's go try these babies out."

Tim was hot on his heels as the gangly teens tore themselves from the booth. "I bet they cut our man-hours on Project: Carmageddon in half!"

"And leave Mom's minivan alone!" Kim shouted after them, but they were already out the door. She leaned back with a sigh. "Why do I feel like I just contributed to the end of mankind?" she half-kidded.

Monique scoffed. "Don't be too hard on them. They're just excited. Besides, anybody'd be psyched to get one of those."

"Is that so?" asked a coy Ron. He and Kim traded furtive smiles that baffled Monique until Ron produced a third wonder. Its lilac casing scooted across the table, skirting across years' worth of grease for a frictionless flight. "Ta-da," Ron said.

Monique caught it in a daze, and stared at the silent communicator. Terror and awe belted her in the stomach, leaving her queasy and breathless. "I…" Thoughts jumbled into her mouth, unable to order themselves into speech. The profundity of the gift wasn't lost on her, but neither were the responsibilities it carried. She could feel the weight of it tug her hand back toward the table. Finally, she looked between her expectant friends and managed to say, "I don't know, guys."

When Monique tried to return her gift, Kim pressed it back into her hands. "You were a big help too, Mon. Watching my brothers' backs…" Green gratitude showered upon Monique. "It means a lot to me."

"Not to mention the rescue from Destructo-Dude's lair last month," Ron added before resuming his gorging.

Monique still felt torn. Globetrotting held a world of appeal to her, but she could definitely do without the long hours. Even now, she was running on only four hours of sleep, having returned from their night mission in the Pacific to discover that it was already early afternoon in Upperton. She would never admit to it, but she admired, even envied, Kim's ability to handle it all. To look at the redhead, one would have guessed she had spent her morning preening in front of a mirror, not beating up some dwarf scientist.

And the death-defying? Forget it. Trying to sleep on the plane ride home had only brought her nightmares of giant killer ants, and exploding Vortex thermoses, or whatever it was they had liberated in the raid. "Don't get me wrong," she said, "I'm happy to help. I just…I don't think this is me on a regular basis. You know?"

She tried to give it back again, and again, Kim refused it. "Keep it," the hero insisted. "You've earned it, even if you never go on another mission."

"They make awesome MP3 players," Ron interjected between burritos.

Kim watched him unwrap yet another with disgust dug deep into her features. "Besides," she added to Monique, as they watched him devour again, "I'm thinking I'll need a new partner if my old one keeps eating like that."

Ron dismissed her judgment with a wave. "Puh-lease. Your jealousy is way transparent, KP."

"Oh?"

"Yeah." He waggled his golden brows. "The girl who can do anything just wishes she could eat like this." And he proceeded to eat a burrito without the aid of his hands, or his teeth.

Both girls clutched at their stomachs and made a great show of their disgust as Ron consumed his prey as a snake would a field mouse. "So not," gagged Kim. "I mean, come on. What would you say if I ate like that?"

Ron pondered this for a moment. Rusty gears whirred behind his eyes, constructing the image. "That would be really hot," he decided aloud.

"Shut up!"

Kim slapped his shoulder, inciting a laugh from him she couldn't resist returning. He scooped up packets of Diablo Sauce and chucked them at her, peppering her with a barrage of spicy projectiles and worsening her giggles. She snatched at the spent ammo and sent it back his way. The sauce war grew, as did their laughter and delighted shouts, until the pointed clearing of Monique's throat made peace between the sides.

"So," said Monique, leveling a smug smirk at the two flushed teens, "Should I leave you two alone, or would you like to get a room?"

A blush stormed Kim's pink cheeks, burning them scarlet. Ron found sudden interest in his tray, which had been emptied before its time thanks to his and Rufus' efforts. The pink putty rodent now rifled through the wrappers, licking clean whatever stray beans or gobs of cheese had thought to escape his wrath. "'scuse me," Ron mumbled. "Think I'll load up on round two. You girls want anything?" Monique shook her cheshire smile. "KP?"

"No," squeaked Kim, unable to look him in the eye.

He scooped up his tray, mole rat and all, and left in a hurry. Once he had left their earshot, Monique turned to Kim and said, "So spill already. How are things on the Ron Front?"

Kim found her voice again in Ron's absence. "Confidentially? Really great!" Lecturing her brothers five minutes ago, she had possessed a matriarchal air. Now Kim sounded thirteen again, talking at a sleepover about which boy band was the cutest. "Things have just clicked between us. We're totally synching."

Monique leaned in. Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial tone as she asked, "Kiss him yet?"

"You mean, since Christmas?" Kim shook her head, even as her lips tingled with the mistletoe memory. Then her face became uncertain. "Well, there were a few close calls. New Years', that night in the apartment…and the one you interrupted in Destructeron's dungeon," she added wryly.

"What?" Monique slapped her forehead. "If I'd known that, I would've taken my time." She watched Kim's expression fade dreamily. Stars twinkled in the redhead's eyes during a silence that Monique could not bear for long. "Well, are you gonna?" demanded she.

The daydream burst, plunging Kim headlong into reality. "What? Oh. I…" She edged back from the question. "I'm just waiting for 'the moment.'"

Dreamy words met their match in Monique's arched eyebrow. "And which moment would that be?" she asked.

"You know," said Kim, "'The moment.' A sleepy glaze settled over her eyes as they wandered from the booth and found their way to a tuft of blond straw bobbing at the counter. "The moment when everything feels right. Birds sing. Flowers bloom. Bells…ding-a-ling." Her face scrunched as her imagery faltered. "Stuff like that, I guess."

"Something 'round here's a ding-a-ling," muttered Monique.

"It has to be perfect," Kim insisted. "This is, like, Terror Level Red territory. If I mess it up…"

Monique eyed the young woman in a new light. True fear was a rarity on Kim's face, and it looked odd to Monique now. Didn't she realize that there was no earthly, heavenly, or feasibly possible way Ron would reject her? Or was it something else? "Are you afraid of 'the moment,'" Monique asked, using the same emphasis Kim had placed on the words, "Or what comes after it?"

"What comes after what?" asked Ron. He set his tray down and sat opposite his two friends with a clueless smile. Kim tried to answer him, but nothing even remotely close to actual words made it out of her mouth. The sudden speechlessness piqued curiosity in Ron powerful enough to divert him from his tray of snackage. "You okay, KP?"

While Kim babbled for an answer, Monique rushed to her rescue. "Boy, they filled your order fast," Monique exclaimed in a voice brimming with interest. "I didn't think they could make 'em that fast. Did you know that, Kim?" Kim offered a muted shake of her head and a grateful look. "Wow," Monique said loudly.

"Oh-kay. Weird." Ron shrugged and unwrapped a soft shell. "I guess. They've been slow since spring semester ended."

"Ooh! Summer!" A shimmy infected Monique's shoulders and hips. She succumbed to the unheard beat and said, "Girl, I'm gonna grab some sun, find some sand, and party like I mean it. Mmm!" Her dancing carried her into Kim, where she tried to bump the redhead into joining her. "How 'bout you two?"

Ron leaned on the table in thought, propping his taco halfway to his mouth. "Sun and sand sound too far out of the way for me and my pea-sized budget," he said. "I'm just gonna chill out here and catch up on the eight hundred hours of sleep I missed out on during finals. Maybe read some comics, or stock up on snackage."

"You generally need food for that," Kim pointed out.

He gave her a confused look. Kim just smiled and nodded at his tray. There, a pile of empty wrappers sat, untouched by his hand. His horrified gaze traveled up to his fingers, between which burbling pink ooze devoured the last of his tacos right from his very grasp. His hands flew open and the heavy mass of liquefied splattered onto the tabletop. When it congealed into a more familiar shape, its girth bulged with the memory of food well spent. "Rufus!" cried Ron.

Rufus rolled back, rippling at the edges, and burped. "Ho, sorry," he moaned. He didn't sound the least bit apologetic, but figured that even feigned remorse would stave off any serious anger on Ron's part. At the moment, he couldn't run from a snail doped up on tranquilizers, let alone a taco-cuckolded teen.

Annoyance welling up in Ron vanished at a musical laugh. Kim sang amusement at his expense, and excused herself from the booth. "Here," she said, "Let me grab you something. Suddenly I am hungry. Anything, Mon?" When Monique shook her head, she asked the fat smear on the table, "How about the naked mole pig?"

"Ooh," groaned Rufus, "So full."

"Right." She gave them a wave, letting her eyes linger on Ron a half second longer than she should have, and then glided to the counter.

Once he knew she couldn't hear, Ron released a sigh that started from his toes. He watched her walk with naked admiration, and didn't break his longing gaze until he felt Monique's eyes staring at him, and turned to meet them. "What?" he demanded of her knowing grin.

His ignorance didn't fool her for a second. "Do I have to ask how it's going?" she murmured.

Ron checked again to ensure that certain sculpted ears were well out of sight, lest they burn. "Between you and me? Really great!" he hissed excitedly. "It's like being back in Pre-K, only this time, when she kisses me, I don't think I need cootie shots."

"She didn't tell me about…" Monique trailed off, taking notice of the dangerous amount of interest Ron paid the blurted thought. "…the cooties," she finished lamely. "So," she said, switching gears, "Should I expect a wedding invite anytime soon, or will you just keep Kim as part of your harem?"

"Har, har." He sneered away her mockery in good spirits, leaning in and motioning for her to do the same. "As a matter of fact, I do plan on making a few giant leaps for Ron-kind tonight," he whispered.

A surge of surprise coursed through Monique. Of the two of them, she had never expected Ron to be the bolder, counting on Kim's characteristic courage to win that contest. It amused her to no end to think that, in matters of the heart, Ron was the lion and Kim was the mouse. "Detail me up, Ron-meo," she insisted in low tones. "A night of dinner, dancing, and delight?"

Ron shook his head. "Nope. Something this important calls for a surgical strike. I gotta hit her where she lives."

"Your apartment?" asked Monique, bemused.

The subtle sarcasm drifted past Ron's ears. "Exactly. First stage of the attack: candles and music. Second stage: mouth-watering chicken parmesan with a Caesar side-salad. And when she's crammed full of food and ambiance…" He leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head. "Stage Three: The Ron lays it all out on the table." With a sniff and a sigh, he declared, "Guaranteed to succeed."

"Crammed full, you say." However lacking she found his diction, she couldn't help but admire him. That goofy smile splitting his freckles said it all. She returned the smile in kind, masking the tiny prick of a green knife in her heart. "Sounds classy."

"Crammed full of what?" Kim slid her tray onto the table, unwittingly splitting Ron and Monique's surreptitious counsel. Her suspicions arose when she spied their guilty faces. "Crammed full of what?" she repeated, this time with face and voice pointedly curious.

"Uh, c-crammed full of, uh…uh…" stammered Ron.

Monique supplied, "Food."

"—food, right, crammed full of food." Ron's eyes jumped about the restaurant, seeking support. They found purchase on Rufus. His hands shout out and scooped the mole rat up and raised him as evidence. "Rufus here. I said it was okay for him to eat his fill—"

"As if he could be stopped," Kim pointed out.

"—because I thought I'd cook diner for us tonight," Ron finished. Regularity returned to his stuttering voice as it moved back into a truthful realm. "I figured, y'know, we could have a nice meal at home. Something nice, and really…nice. Wouldn't that be nice?"

Kim's suspicions dissolved. "Cool," she said. Then she glanced at Monique. "You in?"

"What." Ron said in a graveyard whisper.

"What!" cried Monique.

She reeled at their reactions. "What?" she asked. "The more the merrier, right? Besides, we should hang out more before you jet off and 'get your summer on,' or whatever you called it." She tried replicating Monique's booth dance, only to give up with a laugh. "I'm sure Ron wouldn't mind another mouth to feed if he has some helping hands to go with it." Looking to her partner, she asked, "Would you, Ron?"

"Wha'? Oh, I…uh…"

"Ron already asked me," Monique said quickly. Ron gave her a sickly nod, and she continued, "Yeah, he already brought it up, but…but I have this…"

"Little cousin," said Ron.

"Sick mother," Monique said a half second after Ron spoke. They exchanged panicked, confused glances beneath Kim's skeptical eye. "My, uh, little cousin, he's watching my sick mother for me, and I…promised I would help."

Kim gave them a silent third degree, probing their nervous grins. "You two are acting kind of strange." With a glance at Ron, she told him, "You, I'm used to. But you…" she said to Monique, and leaned in. "What are you—"

Four musical notes rode in on a white horse, pulling Ron and Monique from the pit they had dug for themselves. Kim reached beneath the table and produced her Kimmunicator. She thumbed the 'answer' button, but nothing happened. The four notes played again. Confounded, Ron combed his pockets, coming back with his own Kimmunicator, and tried his. Again, nothing. That's when Monique figured out that the ringing came from her pocket. "Oh, sorry," she said. "That's me." With uncertain motions, she pulled the lilac device from her pocket and thumbed it on. "Um, hi?"

_"What up, Monique?"_ Wade said from the tiny screen_. "Just checking in to see if everything's working on the Monnunicator."_

"Hey, cute stuff," Monique sang back, and smiled at Wade's blush. "Everything except the name. 'Monnunicator' sounds like some retired wrestler on welfare."

"Thank you!" exclaimed Ron. He shot Kim a smug look and said, "See? What'd I say? I said out-of-work **_luchador_**." Kim gave him a raspberry in response, making him laugh.

Wade said, _"We'll go over the features later. I also called to make sure everything went all right with that weird tip I set you guys up on last night."_

Kim and Ron ceased their face-making and crowded around the Monnunicator. "It went all right," said Kim, all business now. "We went in and out as planned. Everything our new friend said was right."

"New friend?" asked Monique. "You mean, someone told you guys that Demented—"

"Dementor," corrected Kim.

"Whatever. Someone told you he was planning something?"

Ron nodded. "That's the long, short, and in-between of it. Real creepy guy, but you can't beat the intel." He pushed his way into the Monnunicator's camera field and said, "Hey Wade, can you set us up with a clip show?"

_"I'll do you one better, Ron. He's contacted me again."_ Wade's image flickered and disappeared, replaced by a neon line that cut the screen in half. Monique had just enough time to flash an unreturned glance of doubt at her two friends before the line began to jump and dance to the beat of a hoarse, tinny, artificial voice.

_"**Kim Possible. You and your team did well in last night's raid on Professor Dementor's compound.**"_ The strange voice held a touch of pride for the teens' handiwork. It failed to pierce the thick haze of mistrust on Kim's stony features. _"**But the danger is far from over. Even now, your enemies conspire to retaliate for this latest victory. Be on your guard. I will be in touch.**"_

A low whistle rolled off of Ron's tongue. "Spooky," he announced.

"Is there anything else?" asked Kim, still frowning. It galled her to take advice from a contact they didn't know, but she knew when her pride was getting the better of her. Besides, she had once trusted a stranger she met via a computer, and trusting him had turned out to be one of her best decisions. She looked to that former stranger now, and asked, "You haven't made any progress in tracking him?"

Wade returned to the screen to shake his head. _"That's all I've got. Whoever this guy is, he's good; he's bouncing his signal off of so many satellites, relay stations, and backwater servers that it would take me months to dig out the source of his signal."_ He would have said more, but a flashing red glare rode on and off his face, reflected from some beacon hidden within the wall of monitors in front of him_. "Whoops. Looks like trouble."_ When he looked back at them through the camera, he said_, "Just got an alert on the local circuit. There's a robbery in progress at the Middleton Art Gallery. Feel up to it?"_

The aches in Monique's leaden bones laughed at the thought. "I pay taxes so police can handle stuff like that. Count the part-timer out."

"The on-staff handsome guy has to agree," said Ron with a sage nod. A rumble escaped the knit of his jersey, and he added, "And so does the handsome guy's stomach."

_"I think Kim'll be interested in this one,"_ Wade said in a sly voice. His image blinked out again, replaced with black-and-white footage that had a time stamp in its corner from just a few minutes ago. Glass showered from the ceiling of the room the camera stood watch over, making way for a trio of coiled ropes to drop and unfurl. A gaggle of jumpsuit-clad men rode the ropes down, led by a two-toned vixen with a devilish smile. She caught sight of the camera, and then the video ended in a sudden burst of bright flames from her hands.

Kim's hands balled into fists. "Shego," she uttered. Her narrowed gaze softened as it returned to Ron's face. The pleading expression he wore almost made her reconsider. Almost. "Well," she said to him, "If you're cooking, I'm going to need to work up my appetite. C'mon!" She snagged Ron's wrist and pulled him from the booth toward the entrance. "Later, Mon!" she tossed over her shoulder. "I'll talk to you later."

"Aw! How come I don't get a choice?" Ron had just enough time to grab his bloated mole rat and stuff him in his pocket. They were out the door before he could protest again.

"Call me, beep me!" Monique called back as the door swung closed. She stared a moment more, watching them gear up in helmets and jackets before mounting Ron's motorcycle and roaring out of the parking lot. The way Kim's arms wrapped around Ron's stomach made the green blade in Monique's chest twist, if only a little. But she shook the unbecoming thoughts aside and instead looked into the promise of that night. Imaging Kim's excited voice over the phone the next morning gave her reason to smile again. "Good luck, you two," she said to empty air.

* * *

Dementor sat at the cusp of his cracked marble throne. Defeat hung his helmet, and echoed in the ruins of his sanctum. The last of the fires had died out hours ago. Now, only their smoke remained, choking the first rays of a new, embittered dawn. Dementor's henchmen were long gone, evacuated when the island's defenses had turned on their masters; the king lorded over a broken realm in solitude.

_"Hear that? That's the sound of your little empire crumbling,"_ the Possible girl had said, with her angelic face darkened by hate. _"Get used to it. Because the days of us running around, playing this little game? They're fading fast."_

Game? The Possible girl thought this was a game? The notion turned Dementor's stomach. All these years, his aspirations for a new world order had been little more than amusing antics to a cheerleader. Now as the cheerleader grew up, she tired of their game. A game? There were rules, certainly: common courtesies extended across both sides of the border dividing hero and villain. It was only proper to have rules of engagement. But a game? And if it were a game, did that make Dementor the loser?

A howl cut from his throat, fueled by pain and rage unimaginable. His cry consumed the battered halls of his sanctum and fled to each corner of his domain. He howled until his lungs could give no more, until his throat ached with the effort. Drained, he fell from his throne and knelt with the scattered remembrance of his domain. When the last echoes of his voice returned to him from the edge of the world, they stole from Dementor the last of his resolve. A single tear escaped the rim of his helmet and smudged the sooty sheet beneath his bed of rubble.

"Knock, knock," a sing-song voice called from the sanctum's inner door. "Sorry to be rude, but your door was open, so I thought I'd let myself in." Freshly polished black boots crunched a path across the devastation. Frigid lips curled into a smile as the eyes above them surveyed the room, carrying in them a malicious twinkle as they did. "I must say," the interloper confessed through his smirk, "I love what you've done with the place. But the theme…it seems familiar." He stopped in front of Dementor. "I think we have the same decorator."

Dementor glared at the powder blue joy taken at his expense. He stood and brushed his tunic clean. Drained of resolve or not, he would not let this joke of a rival see him in the throes of loss. "I have no means with which to threaten you," he said, "So I will simply call you a boorish peasant, and insist that you leave at once."

The devious Doctor Drakken rubbed his fists beneath his eyes and said, "Oh, boo. Boo hoo." Dropping his hands, he showered disgust upon Dementor with a look. "So Kim Possible roughed up your precious little getaway. Do you have any idea how many of my lairs that little brat has toasted over the years? My credit rating is…" He stopped to think about it. "Not that I ever actually pay for anything, but you know what I mean."

"Yes," muttered Dementor. "You are a useless idiot. Now leave me. I have no use for you here, or anywhere."

"Hmm. I can see you're busy," agreed Drakken. He circled his prey with a vulturesque smile. "Mourning lost empires, and all that. But fiddle not, my miniscule Nero. I've got the cure for your blues."

"You are my blues." Dementor turned away in disgust. He could not bear to hear the prattling of this self-titled genius while his island smoldered. Not long ago, he would have atomized Drakken where he stood, but alas, Kim Possible's thoughtless boot had taken that small joy from him, too. "I have little need for anything you might offer, Drakken. I…"

Two new shadows joined Drakken's on the floor, inciting Dementor to turn around. There, he saw a new intruder at each of Drakken's sides. The two were a menagerie of differences: one colorful, the other dark and drab; one almost as short as Dementor, while the other topped Drakken by several inches; one wore a set of garish golf clubs behind his highland clothes and tartan, while the other swathed himself in robes the color of moonless midnight.

Though Dementor had never met them in person, he knew these men by reputation alone. "Duff Killigan," he stated to one. "Lord Monkey Fist," he said to the other.

The two flanking villains remained silent, letting Drakken speak for them. "Sit back down, Professor," suggested Drakken. A wild gleam took hold of his eyes as he said, "I've got a proposition for you that I think you're going to LoVE."

**To Be Continued**


	3. LoVE Rekindled

_All-Purpose Disclaimer_

Kim Possible contains seven essential vitamins and minerals, and is part of this complete breakfast.

* * *

_Six years' worth of life flashed before Kimmie Possible's eyes as she grasped the tree branch with all her might. Her tiny knuckles blanched with the effort. Bark bit into the soft flesh of her palms. "Ron, I don't think I can go any higher," she called out. Once her eyes had cleared of memory, she cast a look down. A carpet of grass and roots waited for her a million miles below, spinning just to make her dizzy. Kimmie yelped and clung tighter still to her branch, feeling the thick bough beneath her feet sway with her trembling._

_Further up the tree, Ronnie Stoppable called back, "C'mon, KP. Don't be such a scaredy-cat now. We're almost at the top." His sandals scraped against branches, which he used like rungs to scale the old tree in their pre-school playground._

_Bark rained down on Kimmie's face when she looked up after him, blinding her and making her more afraid. She clamped herself at the halfway point of the tree and could go no further, no matter how much Ronnie's taunting stung. "I'm not a'scared," she lied loudly. "I just don' wanna, that's all."_

_ Wind rustled through the springtime blossoms all around them. To Kimmie's terrified ears, it sounded like the tree laughed at her, just like Ronnie did now. "Okay," he shouted, now nearing the top. "I guess I'm gonna get to see all Middleton, and you just get to see a buncha dumb flowers." He laughed again. So did the winded blossoms._

_"I like flowers," Kimmie retorted in a squeaking voice. A strong gust came and brushed her bough balcony, causing her to cry in alarm and hug the trunk of the tree. Ronnie's laughter continued to recede upward as bristling bark scraped her cheek raw. Eyes squeezed shut, she wished she could be brave, like Ronnie. He was always climbing trees, or jumping off the slide, or catching bullfrogs in the pond, or lots of other cool stuff. But Kimmie just wasn't like that. She couldn't—_

_Ronnie's cry tore Kimmie's eyes open. Her green fear flew up to where he perched near the apex of the tree. There, the branches weren't as strong; his foothold gave way with a loud crack, and Ronnie fell._

_The world blurred around Kimmie as she felt herself move. Greens, blues, and pinks ran together in the background, but her eyes stayed with Ronnie as he fell. She felt herself fly along the bough beneath him and watched her hand spear out and snatch his wrist. Ronnie's weight jerked her off the bough, but her other hand caught her former foothold. Her arms disagreed mightily in which direction to go, but she kept them both at bay with a grunt. Each of her grasps screamed violent protest, but she paid them no mind._

_The two children hung there a moment, bobbing up and down on the bough, staring at each other. Ronnie's screams died, becoming stunned awe instead. Finally, he found sense enough to grab a nearby branch and relieve Kimmie of his weight. Kimmie and he climbed back onto the bough, still silent, both breathing hard._

_"You…" Ronnie spoke after a spell. "You…saved me. I…"_

_Kimmie remained speechless. Her heart still thundered with its previous fright, but also with new thrill. She had saved Ronnie. She had soared through the tree, heedless of falling. Kimmie looked down at the ground again, and saw it much closer now, and without its former spin. The branch they sat on felt wide as a sidewalk. Kimmie looked up at the top of the tree, now only a few leaps and bounds away. It called to her in a voice she could hear as clear as her own now._

_"Hey, KP?" intoned Ronnie, as Kimmie already began plotting her course up the tree. "Can we, y'know, not tell my mom about this?"_

* * *

**Kim Possible  
The Power of Friendship**

_by Cyberwraith9_

* * *

Shards of glass crunched beneath their former home, a broken skylight mounted high overhead in the Middleton Art Gallery. Blackened boots crushed the shards into the carpet, creating a glimmering blanket upon which to carry out their misdeeds. They that wore the boots spread through the gallery's interior like a disease. Their eyes skimmed the walls for their prize, while their leader stood watch over the building's only two occupants, now turned hostages with black bags fitted over their heads and ropes binding their limbs. 

"Holy crap," groaned the green-clad captor, folding her arms. "These places are even boring to rob." Her pallid, pleasing features dipped in a scowl at the portlier of her hostages. She snatched the drawstring bag from his head, revealing piggish eyes sunk into a piggish face that darted to meet her gaze. "Can you believe this?" she asked the gallery's manager. "I'm a serious professional. Pulling a heist like this seems so…so…cliché."

The manager gasped breaths of freedom and looked up at her with wild panic. "Take what you want," he sobbed. "Just don't hurt me."

"No!" the second hostage shouted from inside his bag. "Leave my work alone. I don't know what you want, but don't you dare touch my work!" He struggled against his bonds, flexing wiry, sculpted muscle beneath New York designer fashion.

Shego didn't hear a word. "Hey, why are art galleries closed on Mondays? Is it because artists are always hung over from the weekend before?"

The tiny gallery's doors burst open, their locks shattered and hinges knocked free. Two silhouettes filled the frame in their stead. The setting sun dipped behind them, masking their features in comparative dark until they entered the room. "Ever heard the phrase, 'Look, don't touch,' Shego?" snapped Kim Possible.

Even clad a pink, hearted crop top and capris, Kim's presence imposed fear over the henchmen. But Shego smiled at the intervention. "I was hoping things would get interesting," she muttered. Green flames engulfed her fists as she shouted to her helpers, "Keep working. I'll entertain the Princess."

Kim didn't waste a single glance in Ron's direction. She knew he was ready. "I'll handle Shego," she began.

"And I'll take the flunkies," Ron finished, punctuating with a sigh. "How come you never let me fight Shego," he whined to her disappearing back, which charged into battle with the villain. The two women became a localized hurricane before Ron could muster another sigh. "I always wind up with the numbers," he muttered to himself. Gunshots belted from his knuckles as he rolled them against his palm. He offered the thunderstruck henchmen a grin, and said, "So, who's first? Takes me a minute to warm up, so I promise that the first one won't hurt as bad as the rest of you will."

Shego ducked Kim's predictable flying kick and rolled to catch the heroine on her landing. A sweep of leg knocked Kim to the floor. With an intimate knowledge of Kim Possible's fighting style, borne on a half-decade of bruised memories, Shego could tell that she was far from her peak performance. "You seem a little slow today, Kimmie," sang Shego, putting a claw into the floor where Kim's face had been. The redhead rolled too slow to miss the strike completely, and lost a good chunk of hair to the green flames. "Should I put the kid gloves on?"

"What's the game, Shego?" asked Kim from the floor. She swung her legs up and caught Shego beneath the chin. The kick didn't feel properly solid, as Shego flipped with the momentum and landed on all fours several feet away. A windmill kick brought Kim back to her feet in time to square off with Shego once more. Exhaustion lurked in Kim's manner where she couldn't banish it—in the subtle bags beneath her eyes, or the quake in her steady fists. The aches and fatigue of her late-night mission made her second-guess her haste in taking on this rescue, but she couldn't afford to indulge those thoughts now. "Museums are for people with taste. Why are you here?" she demanded, breathing hard.

Blood trickled from Shego's lips. She licked them clean with a sick grin. "Come here," she entreated Kim with a waggle of her fingers, "And I'll whisper it in your ear."

Kim shook her head. "Don't think so," she scoffed.

Meanwhile, Ron barreled at the array of henchmen atop cumbersome legs. Though boisterous in shout, his mind remained cool and calculating. The game plan of kicks and punches to come lay before his mind's eye, guaranteed to topple the henchmen like dominoes. "Comin' through!" he shouted, and leapt into the air. The henchmen astonished him by rushing in every direction but his. As he landed atop empty floor, they took flight through the confines of the single-roomed gallery. Their wall-ward scrutiny suggested that it was art, and not a fight, they sought. "Hey. Hey!" Ron stamped his foot before giving chase. "This is bass ackwards, guys. You chase me, remember?"

Kim and Shego carried their battle across the middle of the room while their respective boys ran about its edge. Fists billowing with deadly energy darted to either side of Kim's head as she traded blows with Shego. The smell of burning hair lingered behind her, reminding her of the price for a single mistake. Shego grew more confident with each punch. With sinking heart, Kim realized that Shego also detected the progressive weakening of Kim's efforts.

"It's been ages, Kimmie," grunted Shego.

"That it has," Kim grunted back. She launched a roundhouse kick that Shego had no problem ducking. "Been, what? Six months?"

"Eight," growled Shego. "And I've been dying for some payback, Princess. Haven't thought of anything else."

Kim threw a few jabs that the villainess blocked. So far there had been no break in Shego's form, no opportunity for Kim to strike back. "See, that's funny," said Kim, masking her concern. "I almost forgot about you."

A gout of flame leapt from Shego's hand, forcing Kim back with a cry. "Then let me refresh your memory," said Shego with a smirk.

* * *

"Try it now, Scotsman." 

Killigan grunted a response to the legs protruding from beneath the array of screens and controls in Dementor's sanctum. Those screens still undamaged remained dead, and Killigan and Monkey Fist were tasked with bringing them back to life. Thus far their fruitless efforts had been fraught with snide bickering, and showed no signs of improving.

Killigan thumbed the power button on the remote he had scavenged. Nothing happened. "I's no' working, Fist," said Killigan. "Are ye sure you're doing it properly?"

The legs underneath the array twitched with irritation. "I'm doing my best. If you think you can do better, be my guest," snapped Fist.

"Ach, i's no' hard, ye noodle-armed zoonatic," Killigan said with a snort. "I thought you were a smart."

Monkey Fist's furrowed brow peeked up at Killigan from the array's edge. "Oh, yes. I must have skipped the part of my Tai Shing Pek Quar training that dealt with electrical repair and engineering. How foolish of me."

The disgruntled fist rose from the floor and brushed his robes clean of the clinging marble dust. Killigan cocked a brow at him and said, "I'm just sayin'. Sheesh, but you're awful whiny for a ninja."

"It's now or its nothing," snapped Fist. He snatched the control from Killigan's pudgy fingers and jabbed it at the array. The screens defied him at first, but one by one they yielded to Fist's efforts, and came alive with electrical blizzard. Triumphant, the two men shared commending looks until they recalled their mutual distaste, and glowered. Then they journeyed the short way to a table that Dementor and Drakken had salvaged from the wreckage.

The last of the places were set with chairs around the circular table, and then each villain sat. Scowls rounded the table's edge, but Dementor's out-glowered them all. His mistrust mingled between the three men in front of him. Dementor would no sooner trust what little he had left to these three men then he would that fool, Hench (who should consider himself lucky that Dementor let him escape with his life).

But desperate times called upon Dementor to accept these desperate measures. "You want me to join you in a plan for world conquest," said Dementor.

"Exactly," Drakken said, and nodded. "Become a member of LoVE, and the world will be ours."

Dementor's suspicion did not waver. "There are three problems I have with your proposal, Doctor Drakken," he announced.

"Is one of them the idiotic name of our group?" Monkey Fist mumbled into the hairy back of his hand.

"Four problems," Dementor corrected himself. "Secondly being, I see no possible benefit to bringing me aboard your little plan, whatever it may be. I have nothing remaining in the way of resources. Third, I doubt I will like what you ask of me. And finally," and he spoke with sober sincerity, "I cannot stand the very sight of you, and thus am not enamored in the least at the thought of working with you." He glanced to either side of Drakken and said, "No offense to either of you, gentlemen."

Monkey Fist shrugged the affront aside. "I understand completely," he assured Dementor.

"Aye," agreed Killigan, giving Drakken the eye. "Th' blueberry is a wee on th' unbearable side."

"Don't call me--!" Drakken's eyes bulged as he made strangling motions at Killigan. He gagged on his own rage, and had to sit back and force his airway clear. "Yes," he said, still glaring hatefully, "Well, those are all valid points. But let me be equally blunt. You bring to the table an important part of our plan."

Drakken snatched the remote from Killigan's hand and aimed it at the array. With the press of a button, the screens came about into asynchronous agreement, each displaying the image of an alienesque weapon the size of a motor home. Its thick, squat barrel sat on a platform made mobile by four tiny wheels, and featured a gunnery chair at its lowered end. The weapon tapered off from there into an elongated barrel of polished, silvery metal. Concentric rings lined the barrel's circumference, growing smaller toward its end, an enormous bulb of pure red.

Shock tore Dementor's scowl wide open. He flew from his seat and pounded on the table, crying, "Impossible! How did you know about this?"

"I have my methods," Drakken said. "Regardless, I also know this. Your Entropy Cannon," and he gave the pictured weapon a nod, "Possesses power enough to annihilate a city block on its lowest setting. It's the perfect means with which to hold the world hostage." Before Dementor could object, Drakken said, "I also know it isn't finished yet. You've got it in a secret laboratory below, no?" A pointed, glaring silence answered Drakken, broadening his smile. "And given the state of things, it's likely to stay unfinished…unless you accept our help." His self-satisfaction became a fearsome look as he said, "Which brings me to your last objection; I don't care. Your feelings mean about as much to me as personal grooming does to Duff here."

"Hey!"

"You give us the cannon," Drakken commanded in a low tone. "We finish it together. We use it to blackmail our way into enough resources to mount it in a high orbit. We vaporize every major capitol on the planet, and seize power amidst the chaos." He made a dramatic pause, leveling his eyes with Dementor's. "Interested?"

Dementor stared long and hard at Drakken. One question hung unspoken between all of them, until the slight scientist gave it voice; "What about Kim Possible?" he asked.

* * *

A frog's leap carried Ron up and out of danger as two henchmen tired of the chase, and bull rushed him. He sailed over their heads, looking back with satisfaction as they plowed into a plaster sculpture of what Ron could only assume was a man sitting atop a cow with quills like a porcupine. "C'mon guys," he said to the two henchmen disappearing into a cloud of crumbling white dust, "I know it sucks, but what else do you expect from Po-Mo?" 

Shego put her foot through a wall trying to kick Kim. She blocked a retaliatory strike and grunted, "He still jabbers on and on, does he?"

Kim cross-blocked the fist. The floor squealed as she slid back with the force of the blow. "He's incorrigible," she replied betwixt her teeth.

Green fire drove Kim back and disintegrated the drywall clutching Shego's foot. She pulled herself free from the wall and cartwheeled backwards. "Nice to know some idiots will never change."

As Shego landed, Kim spotted what might become her only chance; she didn't have the energy to keep taking Shego head-to-head. She would have to be smart about it. "On the contrary," she said, sprinting forward. "He's gotten pretty quick."

Kim feinted another leap kick. When Shego raised her arms to block, Kim went low, falling into a skid that brought her between green knees. Kim flexed her abs and swung her feet up, behind, and around Shego's waist, linking her ankles at the villain's navel. Then she rolled forward, slamming Shego to the floor as she sat up. Kim's legs flew out as her foe landed hard. Her hands pushed off the floor, springing her forward onto Shego's groaning form.

"And you'd be surprised what he can teach you," Kim said into Shego's face. Her fists cocked back in preparation. "Now, about why you're here…"

"Go screw," snarled Shego.

Emerald jets ignited beneath Kim, engulfing her chest. The heroine felt her ribcage compress as she flew up and off of Shego. A wooden bench waited ten paces back, and caught her in a rough embrace. Bereft of breath and consumed with pain, Kim lay stunned a moment, cursing her own stupidity for falling prey to Shego's powers so easily.

A cry of 'KP!' warned Shego in time to duck a calloused fist from behind her. She pedaled back against the tide of kicks and punches pressed upon her, spying their source between blocks. Ron moved like lightning as he drove Shego back across the floor and away from Kim. "'S'not enough that you blow my lunch break, is it?" he snapped through the maelstrom. "Now you're stealing this and blasting that. Leave this and that alone!"

"Tell me," Shego taunted, launching her counterattack, "Do you work at being a walking joke, or does it come naturally? I bet you get plenty of practice, chasing the Princess around like some lost little puppy."

Shego delighted as Ron pressed harder. He was good, but angry now, too, and possessed of the same fatigue that made Kim such easy prey. That made for sloppy fighting. She picked her moment with care, waiting until he overextended himself on a punch. A quick sidestep brought her around his fist, where she had all the time in the world to plant her knee deep into his solar plexus. Ron collapsed against her, unable to breath, unable to fight the flaming grasp that burned at his arms.

"So," she whispered into his ear, "What do you say now?"

"I'd say," he wheezed, "Go for the eyes."

She squinted at the odd last words. "Go for the…" was all she could say before a wave of pink leapt from Ron's pocket and enveloped her face with a 'yearg!' It pressed into her eyes and squeezed her nostrils shut and clamped her mouth closed and slurped across her skin, smelling of sawdust and beans. Shego lashed out blindly and struck Ron in the chest, knocking him back while she danced about in her choking pink veil.

"Miz Shego, Miz Shego!" one of the henchmen called, "We found it!"

Shego summoned fire to her fingertips and scorched the edge of the pink. It shrieked and peeled away, snapping into a rodent's shape in her grasp. She watched the disgusting creature dangle and wave nervously between her thumb and forefinger. Then she threw it against the wall as hard as she could. It splattered against the wall, a gooey pink mess with a set of dazed eyes and buck teeth drifting in the middle.

"Fine," she said, and watched the henchmen gather around their comrade and his prize: a single frame torn from the wall, cradled beneath his arm. They ran back toward the ropes dangling from the skylight. Shego hoped for Drakken's sake that the painting, whatever it was, was worth the headache. She twisted her arm around one of the ropes and gave it a tug, signaling its wench up on the roof to pull her skyward. "Later, losers!" she called, disappearing upward.

* * *

"You concentrate on the Entropy Cannon," Drakken told Dementor in an icy tone. "I will deal with Kim Possible." 

Dementor to his condescension with poor humor. "And what of our comrades here?" he asked with a nod to Fist and Killigan. "Or is that none of my concern as well?"

The mocking question purpled the scar on Drakken's cheek. "They are here to procure whatever we need to complete the cannon. I'm certain you won't have much purchasing power to buy the parts you need anymore. And unless you plan on stealing them all by yourself…"

Monkey Fist hunched over the table, nursing a grimace. "To be reduced to a gofer," he lamented in a mutter.

"This is the only gofer job in history that pays in nations, simian," Drakken snapped. He slammed his palms on the tabletop and stood, looming over the other villains. "We're going for the brass ring, Dementor. The world will be ours. You need to decide, right now, if you're in or out."

Dementor examined each of them with cold eyes. He plumbed their faces for any sign of betrayal or trickery, and found none. Earnestness lurked in every wrinkle, every follicle, in the devious spark burning across their collective gaze. Whether they could or could not, they believed themselves capable of this boast. If they could put forth such certainty, why not he? "I am in," he told Drakken.

A smile replaced Drakken's glare. The color in his scar faded back to blue as he said, "Excellent. Gentlemen, I give you the new, the victorious, Legion of Villainous Evil." He struck his hand in the circle. When no one moved to place theirs atop it, he pulled it out and swept it across his hair. "Come. Let us inspect our little bundle of doomsday, shall we?"

The table's occupants shuffled back and up. "Drakken," called Dementor, "I would speak with you a moment more." All three men turned to look, and so he added, "Alone. You gentlemen may avail yourselves of my home in the meantime."

A snort erupted from Monkey Fist's broad nostrils. "Wonderful," he grunted, giving the ruins a critical eye. "And such a lovely home it is. What a treat. Come, golfer," he said, and beckoned to his cohort as his mutated feet slapped a path through scattered, scorched wreckage. "Perhaps we can find you a set of earrings that will compliment your skirt."

Killigan followed after in a huff. "Cork it with a banana, y' tree-climbing, vine-swinging…"

Their argument receded down the hall, leaving Drakken and Dementor alone. The sky-hued scientist spied a look of contemptuous skepticism from his newest teammate's helmet. "They really are devoted to our cause," he said. "I've never seen two men act more like an old, married couple than they do, but…"

"So long as they do as they are told, I do not care how they treat each other," Dementor said. His skeptical gaze shifted from the hallway to rest upon Drakken. "They are, in the end, only hired muscle, correct? Somehow, I do not see you sharing the world with a primate or his leisure sport counterpart."

Soft chuckling slipped between the clap of Drakken's steps as he approached Dementor. "Quite correct. I should have known you would be too smart not to see it." With a wave, he continued, "Yes. As a matter of fact, I'd planned on dumping these two like a Christmas tree in March just as soon as they've outlived their usefulness."

"Then why the pretense?" challenged Dementor. "Why reconstruct your abortive legion?"

"Why not take over the world by myself?" asked Drakken, continuing his slow approach. He gestured about the room. "Why haven't I succeeded yet? Why haven't you?" His gloves rose, raising fingers as his count changed: "One girl; two words; five sidekicks…and one weasel thing," he added, raising a sixth finger. Then his hands dropped. So too did his voice. "Infinite problems."

Dementor grunted. "Kim Possible."

"If we're to beat her and conquer the world," continued Drakken, "We need to present a united front. Each of us has failed alone in the past. Together, we can combine our strengths and succeed."

An impassive look stayed fast on Dementor's face as Drakken stopped before him. The air between them hung heavy with mistrust. "But why come to me?" he asked plainly. "Or do you intend to betray me as well?"

Drakken stared at his diminutive host for a long pause. Neither man blinked in the other's presence, nor shrank from the other's naked scrutiny. Stature aside, they stood together as equals. "I don't like you, Demens," Drakken said at last.

"Nor I, you, Lipsky," agreed Dementor.

"But," continued Drakken, "That doesn't mean that I don't see you for what you are; pure brilliance, with an evil that rivals my own." The two villains continued to stare at one another. "When the dust settles, we split the world fifty-fifty—"

"And rule our respective kingdoms in peace?" Dementor laughed. "Come, Drakken…"

Drakken frowned. "You and I will duke it out when the time comes, Dementor, I don't doubt that. But we have to have the world before we can fight over it."

Dementor felt a tremor of shock arc through his body as Drakken extended a hand to him, still stone-faced. He didn't trust Drakken in the least. Nor did he like allowing this rag-tag gang access to his home. But given the state of his empire, what choice did he have? Besides, Professor Dementor would sooner aid his worst enemy than give up any chance at reclaiming what was rightfully his: the world.

"Whether one or many," Dementor said, and took Drakken's hand.

Drakken's sick smile banished his scowl as he pumped their handshake. "We are Legion," he finished.

* * *

Many minutes after Shego's escape, Kim sat up from the wreckage of the bench. Her movements were slow and numbed, courtesy of the army of pain marching throughout her body. She checked her extremities and delicate vitals for breakage before standing up. A long groan fled her lips. "Okay, that was seriously annoying," she said. When no joke came in response, she began to search about. "Ron? Where are you?" 

"Over here," a strangled voice called back. The cry guided her eyes to a sculpture set in the middle of the room, an interlocking nightmare of white piping crossing in and out of itself to roughly approximate a sphere. Ron hung at its center. His limbs twisted between the pipes at impossible angles. His face twisted with according pain. "I got caught up in a piece of art."

Kim strode toward his post-modern trap, raining pieces of bench as she went. She stopped along the way to scrape a puddle of pink off the wall and squish it back into its former shape. "Are you okay?" she asked, placing a groaning Rufus on her shoulder as she joined Ron. She reached into the sculpture and tugged at his jersey.

"Ducky," Ron said. He relaxed his limbs, trusting Kim to disentangle his limbs from their predicament more than himself. "How about you? 'Cause you look mad."

"I'm not mad," she growled.

"Well, you seem mad," he said. Kim hoisted him out by the shoulders, rolling his back across a pipe. He yelped as she dumped him onto the ground. "Yep. You're mad." Rufus hopped down from Kim with a squeak when the redhead whirled around. Ron caught and cradled his little buddy, exchanging curious looks with Rufus. Kim's tennis shoes clomped away from his head, carrying ears that were deaf to his whines for help. "Hey, what's the deal?" he called.

She kept walking. Her shoulders hunched to keep her head locked forward as she snapped, "I don't like losing, Ron."

He scrambled after her. "Well, yeah. But that's what happens when you pull an all-hero all-nighter. How do you think I feel?" He flexed his arms into heroic poses. Rufus mimicked him from his shoulder. "Hello? Ninja. She cold-cocked me but good, but I'm still whistlin' Dixie."

"Good for you!"

A hand snared Kim's shoulder and dragged her back, heedless of the dangerous look she gave it in response. Ron had braved things far worse than her anger…but not by much. "You're tired," he said again. "Cut yourself some slack." More quietly, he added, "You always cut me plenty."

Kim sighed and rubbed at her eyes. Her expression softened into fatalistic glum, worsening the fatigue in her face. "You're right," she said.

"As if there could be a doubt." Ron beamed.

Kim spared him a sardonic look before saying, "The important thing is that nobody got hurt, and that they only made off with one painting." Then her eyes darkened. "The really important thing will be tracking Shego down for a rematch."

"Excuse me?" A muffled voice called out from across the floor, "Are…are we safe? Is my art okay?"

Kim's head whipped around, shooting a chagrined look at the pair bound on the floor. "Oh my gosh," she cried, and rushed to help them. Ron moseyed after, unconcerned as Kim slid in and assessed the pair. The gallery manager had fainted away during the fight. His head lay in a pool of his fat cheek. His breathing was shallow, but steady. The other one, much younger in girth and voice, sat up. The bag over his head twisted to and fro as he looked about in vain. "I'm so sorry, sir," Kim professed as she worked at the sitting man's bonds. "There was a big battle, and…"

"It's all right, Officer," the bagged man assured her. He leaned forward to allow her better access to the ropes around his wrists. "If you and your partner hadn't come, I might have lost everything…I didn't lose everything, did I? Should I wait until the bag comes off to say these things?"

Ron sauntered in. "No worries, dude," he scoffed as he toed the insensate gallery manager's leg. "The worst is over."

He didn't so much as blink as Kim swooped up and snatched Rufus from his shoulder. Kim proffered the mole rat to the young man's bindings. Tired and dazed though he was, Rufus had no problems chewing through them. "And we aren't officers," added Kim in a forcefully friendly voice. She pulled his bindings free and helped him take the bag off of his head. "I'm…"

A memory gaped back at Kim as she lapsed into silence. His sculpted cheekbones drew his face into a smile. Frosted locks quaked atop his head as he trembled. Bright, thoughtful eyes caressed her features with a lover's care. "Kim Possible?" he breathed in amazement.

Kim Possible gasped. "Josh? Josh Mankey?"

Glaciers rolled through Ron's innards. He felt the ice spread through his veins as he watched his best friend and her ex gaze at one another in speechlessness. "Spoke too soon," he mumbled.

**To Be Continued**


	4. Angel's Mercy

_All-Purpose Disclaimer_

Kim Possible is a registered trademark of Disney, Inc. She was created to be a propaganda engine to further the liberal cause in the next generation, inciting a wave of copycat vigilantes with rodent helpers and goofy sidekicks. The revolution is nigh, fellow anarchists. Find yourself a ditzy blond and a rat, and rebel. Rebel!

* * *

_The music of the hallway played on in the background. Lockers drumming, voices in disharmonized unity— a melody known so well that Kim that she didn't even hear it after two full months of high school. The transition from middle school had been, as predicted, no big. After a brief period of adjustment to fit cheerleading, yearbook, spirit committee, gymnastics, karate club, tae kwon do club, kung fu club, the other kung fu club, and the Future Leaders of America meetings into her life, she was ready to gear up their world-saving beat again._

_"Did you hear," Kim called from within the depths of her locker, seeking her elusive geometry book. "Wade said that Colonel Calamitous is getting out on good behavior. Can you believe it?"_

_"Hmm? No, I didn't hear."_

_She withdrew from the locker with book in hand and eyed her subdued best friend. The dark circle around his eye continued to draw her notice from the forced happiness on his face. "You okay?" she asked for the fifth time that morning. "Your eye, it seriously looks like—"_

_"It's fine," Ron said quickly, looking away. "I fell." A beat went by, and then he said, "Let's swing by the library before class. I like the water fountain there better. The water in D-hall tastes funny."_

_She gave him a small smile. "Sure," she said. Ron hadn't adjusted to the jungle law of high school as well as she had, she knew. This 'I fell' story was just another item on a long list of things that bothered her to not talk about. But she kept her smile sealed; Ron would come to her when he wanted help, and not a moment sooner. Forcing the issue would only embarrass him, a lesson she had learned the hard way in the past._

_Ron softened at her smile. "So, early release? That's BS, KP. And how come I'm the last to know everything?" A little of his humor returned with each passing word. "Isn't it time I got a Ron-Phone, or whatever Wade winds up calling it?"_

_"The last time you got your hands on a piece of mission equipment, you almost burned them off," she reminded him._

_"It 'looked' like ordinary nail polish," he retorted._

_She rolled her eyes. "Anyway," she continued, "Wade's thinking of outfitting my locker with a computer in case mission stuff comes up during class hours."_

_"Great," he said with a snort. "Then I can keep coming to you for updates. How does that make my life easier, I ask you?"_

_Kim didn't hear him. She didn't hear anything, because the world around her had fallen away beneath her feet, and now Kim fell, too. As her stomach flip-flopped in freefall, her eyes locked onto the only thing left in existence: a boy—a man—amazing!—rounding the corner with a confident strut. From his frosted peak to his stylish sneakers, and everywhere between, he exuded something Kim couldn't explain, couldn't see, smell, touch, or taste, something she had never experienced before, something that set her heart pounding and her soul aflame, something exciting, something thrilling!_

_"Kim? KP?" Ron's snapping fingers shoved the rest of reality back into Kim's senses. He was the last to return to her eyes. "You okay?" he asked. "You went orbital for a sec, there."_

_Her eyes remained glued to the stranger as he passed them in the crowded halls. "Who is that," she whispered to Ron once she was certain the incredible one wouldn't turn around and notice her pointing._

_Ron gave the gorgeous dynamo a disinterested glance. "Hmm? Oh, him. That's Josh something-'r-another. He's in my first period. Okay guy. A little preppy for my tastes, but you know how high my standards are."_

_His voice may as well have been white noise after that beautiful name found Kim's ears. "Josh…" she murmured. It sent a tingle up her spine just to say it._

_A smirk twisted Ron's lips. "Kimmie's got a boyfriend," he sang._

_"I do not!" she shot sidelong, unable to tear her eyes away as Josh something-'r-another disappeared around a corner. Kim Possible was too smart and too together for crushes, or so she liked to tell herself. But she couldn't deny that something about that Josh lit a fire in her…and she liked the way it burned._

* * *

**Kim Possible**  
**The Power of Friendship**

_by Cyberwraith9_

* * *

"Kim, this is just so incredible! I mean, who would have guessed that you'd come and save me on my very first day back?" 

The three teens walked around the gallery's edge, enjoying the silence in the wake of the police's hullabaloo. True to form, Middleton's boys in blue had shown up well after the nick of time, and had proceeded to investigate the crime scene with tape, questions, sample-taking, and a great deal of clout waved around. Statements were given, evidence was photographed and removed, witnesses were grilled, until at last the police had been satisfied to leave them be, if only for the moment. Josh had been given assurance that he would be informed the instant the police knew something about his missing painting. The artist had curtly replied that he would defer to Kim Possible for his updates, much to the heroine's pinked embarrassment.

Josh now led the way with his rescuer at his elbow, followed at some distance by a churlish blond who would bear a passing resemblance to Ron Stoppable if not for the look of indescribable disdain stretched across his brow. Josh kept an eye on the wall, watching the artwork as they passed, while his other eye lingered on Kim. She shifted her eyes between art and his smile, and tried to keep her own grin from splitting her face. Ron kept both eyes locked on the pair, and tried to keep some facsimile of a smile in his lips, if only for her sake.

Kim fought the blush creeping up her neck, and said, "Well, you know me…"

"Us," uttered Ron.

"Can't resist a good fight," she continued with a nervous laugh. "But I can't believe you're back in town. I haven't seen you since—"

"Graduation," he finished with Kim. "Yeah." They shared another laugh and a smile, looking away from each other to collect themselves. The sound of grinding molars carried them through a brief silence before Josh said, "Well, I pretty much did what I said I would. Went to New York, studied art…"

They stopped in front of a still life bearing his signature. Junkyard oddities mingled in the hues of sunset atop a pedestal of earth. A city hung in the background, mimicking the junk pile's shape exactly. "It sure seems like it worked," Kim said in a hush. The colors danced in her eyes. "It's beautiful."

Josh rubbed the back of his neck. "Thanks…"

Kim continued to follow him, still locked in mortal combat with her blush. Excitement rattled her rib cage with a rhythm she was sure everyone could hear. She herself had a hard time not tapping her toe in time to the beat. 'This is so stupid,' her rationality cried in protest. 'So you ran into an old friend from high school. Why are you being all giddy schoolgirl about it?'

That look of tender gratitude turned her way again, having never left Josh's face since she pulled the bag off his head. A mere glimpse of his countinence smothered the dying embers of her rationality, and threatened to rocket her heart from its cradle. "I don't know if you've got the time, but…if you wanted…" He adopted a look of adorable uncertainty. "Would you like to see my work?"

Fluster babbled out of Kim's mouth as reply as she lost the war; red stormed her cheeks without mercy, and so she looked away in futile hopes of masking it. But Josh's attention drifted back, as did Kim's, to a throat loudly clearing itself behind them. Ron dropped his fist from his mouth and looped it around Kim's arm.

"Well, gosh, Josh," Ron gushed, "We would just love to, we really would, oh, boy, would we ever. But as it turns out, we've got to get home for dinner." A poor attempt at apology worked into his subtle sneer. He stepped back, towing Kim apace with deaf ears to her cry of alarm as she stumbled to keep up. "So nice to see you, we should really catch up some time, don't call us, we'll call you, sorry about your painting, whatever doesn't kill you makes you blah, blah, blah, you look great, buh-bye."

"Ron!" Kim yanked her arm free of his elbow. "Don't be rude."

An unreadable expression replaced Josh's hopeful enthusiasm. "Oh. So you guys live together now."

"Just as roommates," Kim said more quickly than she had intended to. She glanced back at Ron and watched him swallow whatever answer she had beat out. Slower this time, she said, "We, ah, live in an apartment over in the old district near campus. Ron's uncle owns the place."

"Neat." Another pause came, uncomfortable this time. "Well," said Josh, "I don't want to keep you."

His throat throbbed with such disappointment that it broke Kim's racing heart. "I would love to see your stuff, Josh," her mouth said, autonomous of her brain. The words hung there a moment, and then she amended, "Your art, I mean." Scarlet swamped, she ran her eyes aground, and felt ridiculous.

Ron watched Kim regress three years in the space of a rampant heartbeat. Bridled rage pulled at the corner of his eye, making it flutter and dance. His fists clenched so hard that they crackled. "Well, I'd better get going. Gourmet meals don't cook themselves," he said. Both of them seemed to miss his words, as they were too preoccupied with not looking at one another. "Dinner's at seven, KP. Okay?"

"Okay," she said. Her eyes danced their way back to Josh as his returned to her.

"Don't be late," he pressed, backing away. "Seven o'clock."

Kim barely heard him. "Seven o'clock," she repeated mechanically.

His hollow expression didn't register with Kim until the door jangled closed. Ron's absence returned a modicum of sobriety to her giddiness. As her head drifted down from the clouds, she looked back, hoping to catch a second glimpse of the empty disappointment she thought she saw in his face. But he was long gone, and Josh was already moving on. What was Ron's problem? And more importantly, what was hers?

"Kim?" Josh's voice banished all question and self-analysis from her mind. She caught up to him with quickened steps, where he waited next to a self-portrait with excited patience. "Everything all right? You seem dis…"

Kim felt her focus split between Josh and his canvas counterpart. If one Josh distracted her, he did it doubly so in stereo. Once again, she found herself entranced by his mastery of color and form; the inanimate Josh gazed at her with piercing, vibrant blue that stole the breath from her lungs. The portrait's smirk incited one of her own and chased her heart back into a sprint. Her fluster worsened as a gentle hand rested on her shoulder.

"This is my second-favorite one in the show," Josh murmured. When Kim said nothing for lack of breath, he chose to fill the silence. "When my agent started shopping around for my first show, I told him I wanted my premiere to be back in my hometown. He kicked up a fuss, but…" His eyes darted to one side, where a drab rendition of Middleton High School hung in beiges and grays. "This is where my inspiration is."

"Josh, it's…" She didn't shy when his electric touch lingered, though her eyes remained locked with those of the portrait Josh. The sudden marshalling of butterflies in her stomach both excited and disquieted her. She didn't pretend to understand it, but nor did she fight it. Instead, the quiet did the talking for her, interrupted regularly by the cannoning of her heart.

The brief silence reigned in Josh's hesitation. Following their spell, he dropped his hand from her shoulder and stepped to her side in examination of his portrait. "Would you like to see my favorite piece in the exhibit?" he asked.

"Absolutely," the butterflies in her stomach answered for her.

Josh led her from the portrait and toward the back of the gallery. A door guarded with a sign announcing 'Employees Only' yielded to his hand, letting him and Kim into a new room, dingier and less grand by comparison to the gallery behind them. "I don't know why," said Josh, as they walked between rows of shelves, "But it's the only one in my collection that those thieves took." He let slip a worried look. "Why do you suppose they wanted my painting?"

Kim frowned. "I don't know," she admitted. Her brows sunk further at the memory of Shego's cackle, and of the green fists that struck without mercy. Each bruise she bore beneath her blouse would be repaid in triple, of that Kim had no doubt. "But I swear, I'll find out why, and I'll get your painting back."

They reached a stack of frames leaned against the wall. Josh rifled through the wooden leafs in a crouch. "It isn't a painting," he explained, choosing one from the lot. He propped it up for them to see. "It's my inspiration. It's my soul."

Kim gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth, and her eyes went wide at the sight of the painting. All the noise and conflict in her mind ceased, leaving quiet shock to whistle unopposed between her ears. "I…I don't…" she stammered in a ghostly voice. "Wow…"

Josh stood behind her, looking over her shoulder at the captivating image. "This is just a print," he murmured in her ear, "But yeah…This one is my favorite." Green awe traced the colors of his painting in lieu of an answer. Taking her silence as approval, he continued, "In a funny way, I'm actually glad that weird lady robbed me. It brought you, and…I mean, I had planned on looking you up."

"Yeah," she murmured, too lost in the painting to actually listen. "Funny."

He shifted about nervously, glad that her eyes were on the painting and not him. "I was wondering…if you aren't busy…if you'd let me take you out to dinner tomorrow night." Hastily, he added, "It's the least I can do to thank you for saving me. And we could catch up…y'know, on stuff."

Kim didn't answer right away. She let her butterflies churn a response for her, all while the painting kept her eyes prisoner. Distantly, she recalled that she was supposed to feel conflicted and confused, but that thought passed as quickly as it came.

"Okay," she murmured.

* * *

Battery lamplight pressed at the darkness in Dementor's sanctum with and electric hum. The twenty-first century torches encircled a splintering table with chairs. Each villain at the table wore a heavy cloak of shadows, rendering their menace greater than ever as they glared at once another through the gloom. Gathering storm clouds blotted out the starts, leaving ceiling as dark broken as it would be intact. The monitors behind them still flickered on occasion, contributing what they could to the lamps' losing battle. 

"Gentlemen." Drakken greeted them with a general nod, and gestured for them to be seated. "Now, we've all had time to assess our…assets."

Killigan snorted. "Wha' little we have, you mean. I only jus' escaped from prison a week ago b'fore you an' your lass came callin' on me. I've only got wha' weapons I have on me." His eyes vanished beneath the shade of his furrowing brow.

"I'm little better off," said Monkey Fist. "I managed to collect seven of my monkey ninjas since my 'early parole,' and weaponry enough to arm them."

"We are all aware of my predicament," groused Dementor. He thought of his unfinished, unpowered Entropy Cannon sitting several levels below. "Is there a point to this meeting, Drakken, or do you simply love the sound of your own voice?"

"Yuk it up, Short Stack," Drakken replied smugly. "I'm not the one sitting on a phone book." He let Dementor fume in silence, savoring the flavor of it, and then continued, "I thought you might like to know how we're going finish the cannon and beat Kim Possible. But if you'd rather I shut up…" His coy voice trailed off, worsening Dementor's rage.

Monkey Fist leaned onto the table, linking his leathery knuckles together. "I'd like to know that myself," he announced.

Drakken snickered at a private joke. "Well, we can't feed our ambitions on an empty cupboard, can we? I think it's high time we went shopping."

A meaty fist shook the table, threatening to collapse their remaining furniture with a gesture. "Enough riddles, Drakken," Dementor snapped. "What are you proposing? And pray," he added in a dangerous tone, "Be concise."

With opened hands of surrender, Drakken smiled, and said, "What's the one place on Earth that has every component we need to complete our cannon? Where can we find all the weapons we could want, and more?"

"Don' be an idiot," snapped an angry Killigan, "There's no' such a place, except…" Quiet shock shook the danger from his bushy face, leaving him wide eyed and slack jawed. "Ye canno' be serious," he whispered, much to Fist's and Dementor's confusion. "I's suicide t' go anywhere near—"

"The Evidence Locker," Drakken finished for him in a strong, confident tone. The other two adopted similar expressions of shock at this revelation, and joined Killigan in stony silence. Their blue chairman eyed the goggling trio with haughty disgust. "Is that a problem, gentlemen?" he asked.

Monkey Fist managed to shake off his astonishment at the jeer. "Not as long as you've figured out how to combat an army with four people," he uttered.

"Three," Drakken corrected him, returning the shock to Fist's thuggish features. "Plus the henchmen. Dementor and I will remain behind to prepare the cannon. You gentlemen will accompany Shego to the Evidence Locker, and—"

"Where is the Lady Shego, Drakken?" asked Dementor. "One rarely sees you show your cowardly hide without her protection, yet I've seen no trace of her since we started this fools' endeavor."

Another smile crept across blue lips. "She's running an errand for me." The echoing slam of a door shouted to them through the sanctum's barren halls. A light tremor in the floor, combined with the wafting ozone in the air, suggested that Dementor could add his front doors to his staggering list of repairs. "Ah," chimed Drakken, "That must be her now. Gird your loins, my fellow Legionaries. You depart for the Locker soon, after I cement the last little details of the plan with Shego."

Killigan and Monkey Fist rose and left with mumbled grumbling. Dementor looked like he wished to argue the point further, until Shego strode through the door. One look at the rage etched into her beauty convinced him that his objections could wait a while. He followed the other two out of the room, and gave Shego a wide berth just as they did. Her gaze dared theirs to meet it, but their eyes resolved themselves to the floor until they were safely out the exit.

With chestnut frame tucked beneath her arm, Shego marched into the room's center, carrying also a dangerous, flashing thunderhead in her glare. Drakken and his table both shook as she slammed the painting down without preamble, but his smile remained smooth. "I just flew six hours both ways in your crappy little hover car," she snarled, "Babysitting henchmen and nursing a major case of PMS. I'm tired, hungry, sore, and yeah, pretty bitchy right now." Her hands came ablaze, blackening the edges of the ornate wooden frame. "So why don't you skip all the crap, and get to the part where this is **vital** to us taking over the world."

Drakken sat with cheshire patience, waiting until Shego extinguished her hands and placed them on her hips. His eyes caressed the stolen prize; he hadn't expected it to be so beautiful in real life. The images online did it no justice. "Shego, look at the painting," he bid her with softened voice and minute gesture. "What do you see?"

A pained sigh rattled her chest as she grudgingly obeyed. There, confined within the burnt frame, an angel streaked from the heavens. Her pearly wings spread wide to catch the winds, which whipped the waterfall of lustrous red hair that poured forth from beneath her halo. Golden robes kissed her smooth, ivory skin, and danced with the wind as well. A look of utter serenity lived in her radiant features. Most stunning were her eyes: emeralds of her face, they gazed down upon her man in need, who fell beneath the bottom edge of the painting. Only his hand remained in-frame, reaching out to her proffered grasp with timeless need. But the angel seemed supremely confident, as though she had no doubt she could save this soul.

After a moment of scrutiny, Shego shrugged. "I don't know," she said. "It's an angel. Whoop-dee-baby-punching-doo."

He shook his head in silent reprisal. "You aren't looking hard enough," he told her. "If you were, you would see Kim Possible's defeat written between the lines, just as I do."

She squinted at the painting, twisted her head to and fro, and then crossed her eyes. "What, like a Magic Eye? I mean, I guess it kind of looks like the Princess, but…"

A wave of Drakken's hand dismissed her confusion. It wasn't important that she understood. In truth, he doubted that anyone could. But then, they all lacked his genius. "Don't worry about it. Now, I wanted to talk to you about your next mission."

"Oh, right," she said, and turned back to Drakken. It took her an extra second to uncross her eyes, merging the two scientists swimming in her vision back into one. "That reminds me. Are you CRAZY?" Her hands and voice exploded in the face of his composure. "You want me to organize a raid on that lockbox with nothing but a hairy golfer, a hairier psycho-ninja, and a dozen of those short bus washouts you call hired help?"

"Shego, please," he said with an airy tone. "You're making a scene. As it so happens, we have someone on the inside…several someones, in fact." His grin grew devilish for a moment before he sobered. "But that isn't what I summoned you here to discuss. I want you to take this."

Drakken lifted the lapel of his jacket and plunged his hand in, plumbing the depths for some treasure yet unseen. When his tiny fingers reappeared, they clutched with them the handle of a very strange weapon. Shego guessed it to be some sort of ray, judged so by the pronged barrel and trigger stemming from the stock. But she had never seen such a device before. Whatever its purpose, she could tell Drakken had made it himself. The way he cradled it in his hands, Shego doubted he had ever cherished anything so much as this.

Shego took it reluctantly. That it was built by him made her leery to use it at all: Drakken was, after all, a notoriously poor scientist, and she enjoyed her fingers intact and where they were. "Ye-ah," she drawled, dangling the gun at arm's length between her thumb and forefinger. "I don't do guns."

She was about to disintegrate the puny thing in an emerald pyre when Drakken added, "When Kim Possible shows up, I want you to shoot her with that. Her, and that dopey sidekick of hers…d'oh, what's his name…." Drakken rotated his hand as if trying to waft the answer into his mind. "He says that…thing, and does that…other thing, you know the one I mean."

The gun flipped into her grasp with a flick of her wrist. She marveled at its balance and light weight. "Okay," she said with mounting interest, "What does it do?" Her eye lined up with the barrel as she made a series of fancied shots.

"Shoot her with that," said Drakken, "And Kim Possible will fall. I guarantee it."

Shego shrugged, shoved the pronged barrel into her belt, and said, "Good enough for me." When she looked back up, a crinkled piece of paper loomed beneath her nose at the end of Drakken's claw. She snatched it and unfurled its edges, scanning across listed text. "What's this," she demanded.

"Oh, just a few things I need you to pick up," said Drakken. "While the others are hunting up their own needs or parts for the Cannon, I want you to find all this."

What started as cursory examination for Shego became an in-depth reading, followed by a double take between Drakken and his list. Shego looked over the top of the paper in disbelief as Drakken returned to his table. "This is some pretty weird stuff, Doctor D," she declared.

Drakken gazed at his painting, engrossed in the angelic rescue. "I suppose so," he answered offhandedly.

She continued to stare, beyond his notice. Try though she might, Shego could not make heads or tails of Drakken's latest scheme. Oh, she knew he had no intention of sharing the world with any of the losers in his so-called Legion. A double-cross lay in wait on the horizon, but Shego knew neither where or when, nor how, Drakken would foist the short end of the stick onto his LoVErs. "Y'know, Doctor D, you're gonna have to tell me your plan some time," she told him.

"Perhaps," he replied, lost in the painting. "But then," he added, "That would spoil the surprise."

Mysterious. Confident. Unflappable. Shego hadn't seen Drakken like this since the Li'l Diablo fiasco two years back. They would have conquered the world, if only they had finished Kim Possible when they had the chance. Shego's hand ran across the weapon holstered at her waist. Now, it seemed, Drakken was determined to not make that mistake again. She couldn't agree more. No more games.

As Shego turned to leave, Drakken called, "And Shego? Wear the uniform. The others, too." Her muted grumbles drifted past deaf ears. All his senses delved into the painting and its angelic effigy. Lost in the scene, he could almost imagine the angel reaching out to him. 'But how can you save me,' he thought with malicious amusement, 'When you can't save yourself?'

* * *

_It's only a paper moon,_

_Hangin' over a cardboard sea._

_But it wouldn't be make believe_

_If you believed in me._

Music drifted in the darkened apartment, carried by a cobbled collection of speakers hidden throughout the living room. The walls flickered with pale light cast from two stumped candles that had stood tall and proud a few hours ago. Twin plates of stone cold food occupied a card table draped with a bed sheet, each sitting in front of a folding chair.

Only one of the chairs was occupied, though the motionless man slumped in it could hardly be called an occupant, well-dressed though he was. His head rested against the makeshift tablecloth. Strands of his hair dipped into the marinara skirting the edge of his plate. Behind him, an old crooner continued hoisting love on its laurels, fifty years too late to tell that this wasn't the time; the song set his teeth rumbling against one another, as they had done too often that day.

A pink blob burbled across the tabletop toward the other plate of food. He rose up, ready to engulf the helpless chicken parmesan, when a knife flicked into the table in front of him. Rufus leapt back with a squeak and resumed his rodent shape. He bowled through the salt and pepper shakers, and tumbled up to Ron's plate.

"No, Rufus," Ron mumbled into the table. His hand lowered, having guided the knife without the aid of Ron's eyes.

"Aw," whined Rufus. His blobby nose sniffed, twitching his wispy whiskers. "Please?" Luminous eyes stretched within their pink confines, growing unnaturally, irresistibly wide.

"No," he said again. "I said 'no' the last time. I'm saying 'no' now. So when you ask me again, guess what my answer's gonna be."

The eyes kept growing. "Pleeeeease? Soooo hungry…"

Ron lifted his head and glared at the clock on the microwave. The dingy traitor told him that Kim had most certainly foregone any thoughts of being on time for dinner. A thousand scenarios tumbled in turmoil through his head—Kim in trouble, Kim captured, Kim in moral peril—but that became far less likely with every call he put in to Wade. After the techno teen had told him in no uncertain terms to stop calling, he had all but given up hope.

_Without your love,_

_It's a honky-tonk parade._

_Without your love,_

_It's a melody played in a penny arcade._

He looked back to his pleading mole rat. "Fine," he gloomed. "Eat mine. I'm not all that hun—"

The door flew open, admitting a giddy sprite who danced to her own music. Her tempo shifted on its own to fit Ol' Blue Eyes once inside, infecting her low-rider capris with a tantalizing twist. "Hel-lo," she sang from a glowing smile. Vibrant red ribboned around her as she pirouetted to the table. "Oh my gosh, I just had the most unbelievable day."

Ron tripped over himself getting out of his chair. His tie dunked into his plate, then smeared its red sauce across the front of his dress shirt. "No kidding," he said, forcing a pleasant face. He stumbled his way around the table and tugged at the other chair. "Well, sit down and tell me all about it. It's a little cold, but it should taste all right—"

She plopped into his abandoned chair. "Thanks," she said breathlessly. "I'm starved." Callous hands shoved a ravenous Rufus from the plate before plucking the chicken from its pasta bed and shoving it into a nearby dinner roll. "Ron, you should have seen this painting Josh did. It's incredible!"

"Um…okay." Ron seated himself in her intended chair, watching her attack his culinary efforts. He didn't notice when Rufus did the same to the plate in front of him. "You were late because of a painting?"

His sarcasm bounced off the dreamy embattlements erected across her face. "Yeah," she said. "We were talking for hours, and…Ron, he painted me! Me!" She tore away another bite, barely tasting the food. It was the first solid thing she had eaten all day, and went down too fast to appreciate. Besides which, her amazement was directed elsewhere, to the angelic figure locked in her bedazzled memory. "I mean, it wasn't _me_-me, it was an _angel_-me, but you could totally tell it was me, and he painted it, and wow—!"

Kim talked a mile a minute between bites about 'Josh-said-this,' and 'Josh-said-that,' becoming incomprehensible when her mouth filled. The perfect moment Ron had planned out whittled away between her chomping teeth. "Yeah," he uttered. "Listen, KP, I wanted to—"

The gaiety of the afternoon still held what little sense Kim's exhausted mind had hostage. "I mean, it's not like I like him or anything. That's way done." Neither teen could tell if she spoke to Ron, or to herself. "But, it's like…I saw him, and wham!" She swallowed, finishing the chicken off. A strange smile entered her emptied face. "I even said I'd meet him for dinner tomorrow. Can you believe it?"

Her words barreled into Ron's chest with the force of a freight train. "What?" he whispered.

Ron's blanching pallor struck a chord within Kim. She finally remembered herself, and to whom she spoke, and swallowed again. "Just as friends," she said quickly. "He just wants to catch up. Old friends, you know how it goes."

Flightiness drained away at Ron's darkening expression, leaving her with cold guilt. "You're going on a date with Mankey?" he thundered. The pale in his cheeks flew to Kim's while he turned a livid shade of red. "A date? Mankey? A date?" He rocketed from his chair and began to pace furiously.

"It's not a date," she insisted again. Desperation seeped into her tone as she chased after him. Whatever her reason for saying 'yes' to Josh, she could not longer recall it. "Ron, please, what was I supposed to say?"

He whirled on her. "Oh, let's see," he said in mock-thought. "Oh, I don't know…NO?"

"Ron…"

"Well," he continued, spinning away from her grasp, "You are not going out with him, that's for damn sure."

The instant he said it he knew it had been a grievous mistake. Silence haunted the wake of his words, leaving the room tensed and uncomfortable. He was too afraid to look at her, and the stunned expression he knew she wore, as she whispered, "What did you say?"

_It's a Barnum and Bailey world,_

Ron crushed his eyes shut and swore to himself. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, and said, "What I meant was—"

_Just as phony as it can be._

"You did not," she uttered, "Tell me what I can and cannot do." Anger cracked her ghostly visage, so much so that a mere glimpse of it terrified Ron.

_But it wouldn't be make believe,_

"You do not," she said with growing volume, "Tell me who I will and will not see.

_If you believed in me._

"Kim, will you just listen—"

"Josh asked me to dinner to catch up," she announced, "And I'm going." Anger and challenge burned in her green glare, which she leveled at Ron at full force. "If there's a problem with that, it's yours, not mine. Understand?"

Ron's jaw trembled. He ripped the tie from his neckline, tearing his collar as the clip gave away, threw it to the ground, and gave it a furious stomp. "Fine!" he shouted, and stalked away. "I just hope you've got an appetite tomorrow. You wouldn't want to miss **his** dinner!" His bedroom door slammed shut behind him so hard that it rattled everything in the apartment, all the way to the kitchen.

"Fine!" she shouted back, and collapsed back into his chair. The nerve of Ron, telling her who she could and couldn't see. Okay, so she and Josh had a history, but that was long over (except your heart went ballistic when you saw him, remember? shut up, it didn't mean anything). They were just two old friends reconnecting, that was all, just two friends meeting up for a bite to eat. And why was he so upset that she had missed dinner?

Kim became aware of her surroundings for the first time—of the candles dying atop a cozy table, of the intricate meal set before her, of the soft music in the background. She saw the crushed tie on the ground, and remembered how she hadn't even known that Ron owned one of those, or how good he looked in it. In that space of a second, Kim realized what she had missed. No, what she had thrown back in Ron's face. The delicious food festered in her guilty stomach, desiring nothing so much as to be heaved back onto its plate.

She let her forehead thud onto the table, and squeezed her eyes shut. "Nice one, Possible," she muttered.

_No, it wouldn't be make-believe,_

_If you believed in me._

**To Be Continued**

* * *

The song is Paper Moon, and it's sung by so many people that I couldn't tell you who owns it. In this instance, the one and only Frank Sinatra lends his literary voice talent to my endeavor, and I humbly thank him for it. 


	5. Locker Check

_All-Purpose Disclaimer_

The author admits to the guilty pleasure he receives whenever people are impassioned and upset by what he writes. He asks that you give him a little (perhaps undeserved, perhaps not) credit, and also that you keep reading ;)

* * *

_Two sections of stuffed animals organized into neat rows sat with reverence for the alter of stacked pillows at the foot of the bed, and for the adorable couple kneeling in front of it. "Dearly beloved," said Kimmie in a forced baritone, "We are gathered here today to watch these two people get married." A teddy bear with a tiny bow tie wiggled in her grasp, swaying in time with her words. "If anybody here doesn't want these two t' get married, let 'em speak now, or forever rest in—Ron!"_

_The person she clutched in her other hand struggled to break free, but found Kimmie's fingers too ironclad for escape. The sleeve of his jacket, liberated from Mister-Doctor Possible's closet, and many sizes too large for his tiny frame, kept getting in the way of the evacuation of his fingers. "I didn't sign on for this," he whined. "You said to come over and play, not get hitched!"_

_The dishtowel draped between her pigtails swished as she shook her head. She propped the bear up against the leg of her bed so she could give him the full force of her annoyance. "I said we were gonna play house," she told him._

_"Well, yeah," said Ronnie. He disappeared further in to the suit coat with a shrug. "But I thought that meant you'd do mom stuff. Y'know: makin' me a sammich, rubbin' my feet, cleanin' stuff…"_

_Kimmie belted him on the arm and barked, "Play right! You're embarrassing us in front o' everybody." She gave him his hand back, satisfied that he wouldn't run. He used the liberated appendage to massage the bruise blooming below his shoulder. Taking up Minister Bear once more, Kimmie continued, "Ron Stoppable, do you take this girl to be your wife, to have an' hold, an'…um…obey?"_

_"Do I hafta?" he moaned. A fearsome look escaped her dishtowel veil, answering that question. "Okay, okay. I do…I guess."_

_Ronnie grumbled under his breath as Kimmie turned the bear toward herself and continued in her squeaky baritone, "An' do you, Kimberly Anne Possible the First, take this boy to be your husband, to have an' to hold, in sickness an' wealth, 'til death do you part?"_

_"Death?" chimed Ronnie, paling. "Wait, who said anything about—"_

_Kimmie silenced his protests by grabbing his cheeks and planting her lips onto his. Muffled screams failed to break the seal of her kiss, and puffed his face into a fretful red balloon instead. Kimmie released him once his hysterics ceased, and he gasped and choked for air. She snatched a clump of daisies from her mother's garden sitting near her feet and threw it into the stuffed audience behind them. "You have now kissed the bride," she announced proudly._

_He clawed at his lips, falling to the floor with a tortured sob. "That's not how it's done," he yowled. "You hafta say that part before!"_

_Tittering snuck through her smile while he scraped the taste of her from his tongue. "If I did it that way, you'd know it was comin', and you'd just run." An evil look struck her features sober. "But maybe we do need t' do it right. C'mere."_

_She lunged at Ronnie, who shrieked and bolted. Plush guests flew left and right at his feet, and then tumbled away as Kimmie's feet followed quick. Shrieking laughter sang their chase around her room, up and over furniture, knocking over this and that, cherrying their faces, stealing their breath. When Kimmie caught him, as they both knew she would, she made good on her promise. And this time, Ronnie did not struggle quite so hard._

* * *

**Kim Possible  
The Power of Friendship**

_by Cyberwraith9_

* * *

Kim awoke with a start, torn from her dream by the shrill, sharp talons of an electronic howl. She rolled out of bed and into a battle-ready crouch before the sleep had fully fled from her eyes, which swept the room for signs of the slumber thief, and found him squalling from atop her nightstand. The oversized collar of her pajama top—a red jersey almost old enough to drive—slipped over her shoulder as she stood, nursing the cramps in her legs. A glance at the clock gave her some reference as to how angry she should be before she scooped up her Kimmunicator and mashed its call button.

"H'llo?" she mumbled.

_"Kim!" _Wade's frantic features sat atop a wide set of Fearless Ferret pajamas. The bags under his eyes gave Kim a nasty little piece of satisfaction; at least she wasn't the only tired one. But she vowed to cut him no slack because of it as he continued, _"We've got a major hit."_

Her eyes blinked independently of one another. "Wade, it's one in the morning. I've had four hours of sleep in the last two days, and I'm not willing to deal with anything short of Armageddon until I've had a solid eight. G'night."

She was about to thumb him out of existence when he cried, _"Kim, it's the Evidence Locker. They're going after the Evidence Locker."_

The cold, hard fist of his words struck her in the stomach, stealing her breath and leaving fear in its place. "No one is that stupid," she whispered. "You'd have to be—"

_"No offense, Kim,"_ Wade interjected, _"But your rogue's gallery tends to be heavier on the 'mad' side of 'mad scientist.' But don't take my word for it…"_

His image vanished in a hail of clacking keys, replaced by a black screen halved by a lime line that began to dance. **_"Kim Possible, you are in grave danger,"_** the synthetic voice of their new informant announced. **_"Your enemies continue to gather and grow. But they are also desperate. Your actions at Dementor's lair have forced their hand; a contingent will strike the Evidence Locker before the night's end. It is imperative that you stop them, or all will be lost. I will contact you again when I know more. Farewell."_**

The message ended in static, then blinked away, allowing Wade's haggard, round worry back onto the screen. Before she could even ask, she knew he had tried and failed to track the signal to its source; a grump of failure lurked in his taut lips. _"See what I mean?"_

Though still fatigued, Kim's last traces of sleep drained away, leaving her mind fuzzily focused. "Get in touch with Doctor Director," she ordered, striding over to her closet. The door flew open at her indelicate touch. Clothing jumped aside on their hangers until she found what she sought. "Have her meet us there. Cross-town trip should only take us fifteen minutes, so we'll be there in a half hour."

_"That's awful fast, Kim,"_ said Wade.

Kim yanked her mission uniform from the closet and tossed it onto the bed. Then she set her Kimmunicator aside, taking extra care to stay out of its camera field as she peeled the sweaty pajamas from her body. "Whoever's behind these tips, they haven't been wrong yet. Probably a Judas in whatever plot's going on. I want you to find out who he is no matter what it takes."

Wade gave her a nod and returned to his three keyboards. _"See if I can't scare up thirty pieces. In the meantime, good luck."_

"Thanks," she muttered from within her pajama top, pulling it over her head. "If someone's tough or crazy enough to hit the Locker, I just might need it."

_"Actually, I meant good luck waking up Ron," said Wade. "I tried the same doomsday ring tone that woke you up, but his Kimmunicator bioscan shows him still a 'REMmin' along."_

"Oh. Right." Kim reached over and banished Wade from the device, leaving her to stare at the red curtain draped across her arms. She lofted her pajama jersey to her face and gave its fabric a tentative sniff; after so many years as her own, and after countless trips through the wash, she realized on an intellectual level that it couldn't possibly smell like him anymore. Nevertheless, the crisp, salty scent of taco shells, woodchips, and humor filled her nose. The scent's potency startled her, and so she jerked back, but after a moment's pause, she pressed it to her face and closed her eyes.

Kim's inner dialogue—her self-scrutiny, her confidence, her criticism, her pride—had unanimously deemed Kim to be an imbecile of the cruelest variety, and unworthy of ever speaking to Ron again. She wished nothing so much as to apologize for her inexcusable behavior, but that was just it: she had no excuse, literally. Thinking back, she couldn't recall why Josh's presence had excited and confounded her so. She couldn't even picture his face. Only Ron's wounded, angry visage came to her mind's eye as she breathed deep of his imagined scent.

Well, she could still set things right, and resolved herself to do so. But as her crop top settled over her chest, she recalled that it would have to come later. For now, they were on the job, and the world needed her focused. She double-checked her equipment belt and then strode to the wall of her room adjoining Ron's. Her fist pounded thrice on the ancient drywall. "Ron, wake up. Ron!" And then she strode out of the room. Wade could reinvent every noise in the world as an alarm, but Kim knew her voice would always win out when it came to waking Ron.

She had just flicked the living room light on when a muffled bump came from the other side of Ron's door. A sleepy, distorted curse followed after before the door swung open. Ron stood on the other side, rubbing his nose and mumbling insults at his door as he stumbled out, clad only in boxers. "Whu' zat?" he yawned. "Iz the wurld endin'?"

Kim barely gave his undress a second glance. "Suit up," she clipped, and strode over to the kitchen counter. There, she lifted a bowl of pink ooze and shook it gently. A mousy face floated to its surface and yawned, blinking at Kim. "We've got another tip from Mister Voice."

A scowl escaped his sleepy squint. "Dandy," he grunted. "Then you and Mister Voice have a swell time while the rest of us sane people go back to bed."

She poured the insensate puddle of mole rat into her cargo pocket. "Ron," she said, "This is serious. Someone's going after the Evidence Locker."

"Oh, well, in that case…" He was halfway back in his door when her words reached him, and he turned back with a troubled, fatigued look. "Wait. What the hell is the Evidence Locker?"

* * *

"The Evidence Locker is a unique necessity," Doctor Director explained, "And contains enough destructive potential to threaten our world a hundred times over."

The eye-patched super spy led her best freelancers down a frigid, featureless hallway made of riveted alloys. Guards stood on either side of the hall at regular intervals, offering salutes to the trio that went unreturned. Doctor Director's brow hung heavy as she tried to dismiss her teen wonders' fears, even as she herself worried what might happen if they became reality.

Ron tried to lag, but the ladies' pointed glances kept his feet shuffling. He shoved his hands into his pockets and did his best to keep his eyes away from Kim. The angry knot in his stomach made it easy. Whenever her guilty greens flashed his way, he just brought to mind the nauseating smell of chicken parmesan, and felt enraged all over again. "Exactly why are we worried about a locker in some quasi-abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town, anyway?" he groused aloud. "Seems like a job for a hall monitor, not the _great_ Kim Possible."

The line of Kim's mouth grew thinner as Doctor Director said, "The 'locker' part is just a nickname, Stoppable. What you are walking through now is Global Justice warehouse Kappa-Alpha-Peter Zero-Zero-One, our Middleton storage facility. Whenever GJ confiscates anything from a Team Possible caper, we catalogue it, tag it, and place it in storage. There, we can pull it out for study, or other purposes."

"Still not seeing our part in all this," said Ron. He made a point of missing Kim's surprised glance.

His rudeness didn't faze the Doctor in the slightest. "Stoppable," she explained, "When you and Possible wallop the bad guy so he doesn't atomize Cleveland with his atomic ray gun, and he gets hauled off to jail, where do you suppose that ray gun goes?"

The question quieted Ron into thought. "If I say 'out to the curb on garbage day,'" he asked slowly, "Are you going to give me that look like I'm the stupidest man alive?"

Doctor Director regarded him as though he were the stupidest man alive. "Global Justice can't let weapons like that float around until they're snatched up by some other megalomaniacal nut case," she said, continuing to stride through the twisting corridor. "And you can just imagine how many missions you've been on over the years."

"Something closing in on 'lots,' I'd guess," joked Kim, casting a sidelong glance. Her icebreaker only got her more ice from Ron, who felt positively chilly to be around.

"Anything from a pea shooter to a nuclear warhead gets put in here. At first, it really was just a locker." A reminiscent smile lit the Doctor's hardened features. "Of course, that was early on, before we had even approached you in person. Eventually, we needed a warehouse to store it all in."

Kim's expression darkened. "Only now, somebody wants to raid this little treasure trove.

A snort flared Doctor Director's nostrils. "Impossible. The Evidence Locker is a state-of-the-art underground bunker, with the very best GJ has to offer in security. We're virtually detectable from the outside, and…"

Kim's focus drifted from Doctor Director as she began rattling off the thousand and one things that would keep their ambiguous aggressors out. The sour wall blanketing Ron's face bobbed in and out of her peripheral vision. His eyes remained locked on some point ahead of them. Fists curled at his sides, clenched so tight, they were whitening. Kim dropped back a half-step from Doctor Director and murmured, "Ron, we need to talk."

He didn't even glance over, and kept his gaze instead between Doctor Director's shoulder blades. The spy hadn't taken notice of their waning attention. "So talk," he graveyarded back.

When she tried to draw closer, he drifted further away. "Ron, I'm so sorry for last night," she pleaded in her ghost of a voice. "You have no idea—"

"I kinda do, don't I?" he retorted. "I was there."

She bit her lip, then whispered, "I know. But I had no idea—"

"Doesn't really matter, does it?" he said, cutting her off again. The wall across his face cracked slightly as his eye twitched, and he said, "At least it cleared the air."

"What is that supposed to mean?" she asked with a frown.

Ron afforded her the barest of glances. "With Mankey back," he muttered, "I don't have to wonder anymore, and you won't have to settle."

The icy dagger broke Kim's stride as it plunged into her back. She stood in shock, staring at Ron's back as he marched on behind Doctor Director. When Kim jogged the few steps to catch up, she reentered their trio at another arm's length away from Ron, and said nothing.

They rounded corner, where one last guard waited at the end of the corridor next to a door devoid of lock or knob. If Doctor Director noticed the increased distance between Team Possible, or their sudden quiet, she said nothing of it. When they reached the door, Ron's façade slipped again, this time in delight, as he recognized the guard on duty. "Well, well, welly-well-well," he hummed, eyeing the scrunched face beneath the rim of the guard's helmet. "So this is the finest GJ has to offer to protect all our old junk? Yeah, I feel loads safer now."

Will Du's sneer tightened to keep his retort at bay in his commander's presence. His grip on the rifle at his shoulder tightened. Eyes locked forward, he announced, "Doctor Director, Kappa-Alpha-Peter Zero-Zero-One welcomes you—"

"Stow it, Du," ordered the Doctor. She stepped around him and summoned a panel from the wall. A blinking screen rotated from the wall alongside several new, bizarre-looking sensors. At the computer's instruction, Doctor Director offered her palm and remaining eye for scan. After a moment to process, the doors rumbled open. Kim was surprised at their thickness, which could not have been any less than three feet. But her shock redirected itself to the room inside the doors as Doctor Director announced, "Kim, Ron, welcome to your life."

What lay beyond stretched out for an incredible distance—Kim's thoughts likened the space to a football stadium, if the stands were hollowed out to make even more room. Every last square foot of the room held a crate, or a box, or a stack, of Team Possible's history. So tightly packed was the space that the walkway rows set between were scarcely wide enough for two people shoulder-to-shoulder. Kim spotted a hoard of deactivated Kill-Bots lined up a dozen long and three deep. Next to them, a defunct rocket sat in three large pieces, its warhead missing. Off in the distance, a tremendous robot bearing a Z on its chest towered over the fields of boxes as if it were a dormant guardian.

Kim's eyes spun from box to box to box, taking in the dispassionate enormity which her life's work had been summed up in. Labels like '**Ray Guns, Sm—Lg**' brought to mind a thousand close calls. A large crate, '**Golf Ball/Grenade (CAUTION: CONTENTS VOLATILE)**' made the deep scarring across her back ache. Nearby, a stand with miniaturized ninja weaponry gathered dust, and evoked a tingle where Kim could recall them and those like them slicing into her skin. Everything about the room felt like a bad memory that had been tagged and categorized. The sight of it all overwhelmed her.

"So many memories," yawned Ron, whose coarse gaze took in the room in a few seconds. "So many pants lost."

"As you can see," said Doctor Director, "The Locker is secure."

Kim shook her awe away. She drew her Kimmunicator and thumbed it on, then scrolled through a long list of data files. "Let's make sure it stays that way," she said, selecting a program from the list. The air above the Kimmunicator sparkled and filled with flickering green lines that took on the shape of the complex. Kim watched the hologram build itself on a rotating axis as she said, "Our informant is sure that someone will strike sometime tonight."

"See, when a robot-voiced stranger says something," Ron explained to no one in particular, "She's all ears. When I say something—"

Anger broke through Kim's wafer-like patience. "Why don't you do something useful and go check the place out, Ron?" she suggested in a not-so-suggestive tone.

Ron stopped short, mouth poised in mid-complaint. He snapped his jaw shut as his face compacted into a baleful slate. He drew himself up and snapped off a smart salute. "Right away, Commandant Possible," he said, and stalked off before she could apologize.

"Agent Du, escort Stoppable through the facility," barked Doctor Director. Will echoed Ron's expression before marching after Ron. Once the two of them were alone, she glanced through the hologram at the haggard young woman rubbing the bridge of her nose with eyes squeezed shut. It took some effort for the aging spy to remember that Kim Possible was more tan her best free agent and much more than an unstoppable dynamo for justice. She was a nineteen-year-old girl. "Trouble in paradise?" the Doctor asked.

Kim cracked an eye and remembered herself. A ramrod replaced her spine, and cold business, her anguish. "It's nothing," she said. "Just a little…disagreement."

"I wouldn't worry," Doctor Director said cheerfully, never realizing how awful she made Kim feel as she added, "Like they say, love conquers all."

* * *

Each step through the endless, disturbingly familiar field of crates brought Ron a new wave of anger. By the time he passed a half-destroyed genetic resequencer pod (the sight of which made Rufus squeal and dive back into Ron's pocket), he had a raging tsunami congaing through his veins, no idea of where he was, and no particular concern of where he was going.

"Lousy, rotten, flippy-haired, dinner-ruining, bossy, know-nothing know-it-all," he muttered on, keeping his eyes glued to the concrete, well away from the awful memories surrounding him. His hands were jammed in his pockets, his shoulders hunched. "Go check the place out, Ron," he whined in falsetto. "Go far, far away while I write Joshy-Poo a sappy love note: Oh, Monkey, how I love thee. Let me count the ways…"

"Stoppable, hold it!"

Ron dug his eyes deeper into the floor. "Little busy, Du-Little," he shot at his feet. "Why not try back later? Go polish the stick stuck up your ass, or something."

Will's footsteps doubled as he tried to catch up. "No, Stoppable, wait. You have to stop, or—"

A fearsome look cowed Will's warning as Ron craned his neck around without slowing. "Or what, Dudley Du-Right? You gonna write me up, or—" His insult became a grunt when he met with something hard and bounced backward. The faint sound of metal gonged before he hit the concrete. When he looked up, a tower of steel painted powder blue loomed in front of him. Leaning back further, he could make out a barreled torso with a set of enormous arms high above him. A second blue tower sat at some distance to his left, helping to hold the torso aloft.

"—or you'll run into that robot," Will finished coolly.

"The Z-Boy," groused Ron, rubbing his temple. "Great." He glared at the silent steel leviathan and its blank screen. Nakasumi's bizarre creation dredged up a whole slew of memories that he didn't want to deal with, and couldn't stop.

_"Attention, everyone. Contrary to popular belief, Kim Possible and I are not dating. Good news for you, Josh Mankey."_

Boy oh boy, how true that was, even today. If he could go back in time…But then, he hadn't felt that way about her then. It wasn't until that escapade with Drakken's Diablos that his hunky-dory status quo had been shattered by a bizarre new feeling. He could still remember holding her after the police had hauled Drakken and his deadly toys away, patting her on the back and soothing her with whispers.

_"Thanks, Ron,"_ she had murmured into his neck. _"Who needs a boy friend when I have you?"_

Will pierced the miserable veil in his mind. "You didn't hurt yourself, did you?" he asked. "I saw you hit your head, and assumed that nothing vital was hurt."

"Nothin' broken I didn't walk in with," murmured Ron.

"Pardon?"

Ron's sadness distilled into renewed rage. "I said shut your ugly jerk-hole, and let's get back to securing the perimeter," he snapped, "Or whatever it is you Global Justice guys do."

Will quirked an eyebrow as Ron hopped back onto his feet and stalked off. "Whatever you say."

* * *

"—and the vents are guarded with a laser detection grid that sets off an electrical charge through the whole ventilation system capable of bringing down a rampaging caribou," said Doctor Director. "And, like everything else, it's backed up with triple redundancy." Her fist popped into her open palm. A satisfied look settled around her eye patch.

Kim dismissed the hologram with the push of a button, and stowed its source back in her pocket. A discontent look lurked in her overall uneasiness. She let her eyes wander about the actual structure, focusing on its concrete construction instead of the treasures it housed. A tingle born from seven years of constant battle refused to quell at Doctor Director's reassurances. "That'll keep the sane crowd out," agreed Kim, "But my guys won't scare so easily."

Incredulity furrowed Doctor Director's brow. "Is there a way in we haven't thought of?" she asked.

The ceiling answered her in a prompt fashion by shattering open with a clap of thunder. Mortar and steel hailed where it had not vaporized, masking the entrance of a disc-like craft. Kim and the Doctor ducked on reflex as an impounded Hum-Vee with enormous tires crumpled noisily beneath a metric ton of rubble. Lasers leapt from the expanding dust cloud and ignited a field of crates. Fire leapt to the ceiling, and gobbled up more crates in a growing ring of detonations. An instant later, the ceiling opened up with a spray of icy water that fought at the edges of the resilient chemical fires around them, which set off earsplitting explosions at random intervals.

Smoke strangled the air, pulling tears out of Kim's eyes that vanished in the sheets of water pounding at her from above. "There's always the dramatic way," she grunted, and looked up.

Dark shapes leapt from the disc, disappearing into the flickering haze. There was no time for thoughts of chase, though, as the disc parted through the cloud's edge. "Hi, Kimmie," called the green-clad driver, giving Kim a wave from behind the hover car's wheel. "Gosh, it's been ages. So, how've you been?"

Doctor Director smirked through the torrential haze. "This has got to be the dumbest heist I have ever seen," she announced.

Panels opened up across every wall in the warehouse, each sliding up to reveal a line of armored Global Justice troopers that streamed out in perfect synchronization. Their black battle vests and featureless visors glistened in the artificial rain and gleamed in the firelight, creating a starry ring around the circumference as their numbers swelled. In five seconds' time, the perimeter of the Evidence Locker was thick with soldiers, whose rifles rose to target Shego and her fantastic craft.

"Gentlemen," Doctor Director announced loudly, pressing at the microphone in her collar, "Open fire on my command."

Shego smiled beneath the threat of a hundred rifles, and held up her hands. Her waterlogged hair pooling at her shoulders and the puckish look she wore gave her an illusion of innocence. "Looks like you got me, Cyclops. Should've thought to bring some playmates of my own." Then her smile doubled, and her thumb flicked into her fist. "Mind if I borrow a couple?"

At first, nothing happened. Kim dared to hope for a split second that Shego was bluffing. Then a quivering came over a crate several feet to their left. Then the one next to it started shaking as well. Then another, and another. All around them, boxes shook themselves out of stacks. Cracks appeared and widened in their wooden sides.

Kim gave Doctor Director a questioning look. The raw, horrified expression on the spy's lined face froze Kim's innards. "What's in those boxes?" Kim demanded.

"It's impossible," whispered Doctor Director. "This facility is signal-shielded. There's no way—"

"What's in them?" shouted Kim.

The boxes burst with expanding reds and yellows. Gruesome faces grew out of tiny, smiling imps that spilled from the cracks, rising atop massive torsos that sported trunk-like arms and legs. They shoved up against one another as the limited free space in the Locker disappeared, lost to a sea of robotic monstrosities.

A ghastly silence drowned out the hiss of the sprinklers and the crackling flames. Kim watched the all-too-familiar robots lift their arms in unison and turn them on the ring of soldiers. "Diablos," she breathed, feeling her icy innards clench.

Hellfire cut the air apart in streams of gunfire and burning beams. The GJ soldiers leapt out of formation with scattered screams as Diablo lasers blackened the walls behind them. Those too slow vanished in blinding light, leaving behind singed, severed limbs left outside the lasers' reach. Bullets ricocheted off the Diablos' armor like the droplets of water from the sprinklers above.

Kim grabbed Doctor Director and leapt out of the way of a sweeping beam, all the while working out a plan in her head. Spy in tow, she rolled beneath the tripod of an enormous freeze ray that, for some forgotten reason, made her think of a blue fox. Kim yanked her Kimmunicator out. "Ron," she shouted in to the device. She prayed he could pick her voice out of the rolling explosions and gunfire. "Ron, can you hear me? It's Shego, she's activated the old Diablo bots. Ron!"

* * *

Left and right, Ron bolted through the burning stacks of evidence as fast as he could. The sound of war echoed from every side: gunfire, blasts, and the screams of the dying. His Kimmunicator cut into his grasp, pumping up and down, blurring Kim's fuzzy image into a trail of red. "Kim, you're breaking up. I think there's some kind of signal-jiggy cutting in on our Kimmunicatorage." He paused in speech, though not in step. "Or it's gremlins. Hell, what do I know?"

_"Di…go…trans...eed y…" _

The signal never settled long enough for a whole word to make it through. Disgusted, he stuffed it back in his pocket and kept running. Conflicting emotions swam in his mind: he still felt furious with Kim for her pigheaded callousness; he felt guilty for shoving her apology back in her face; he felt relieved that she was okay now that Hell had dropped down around their ears; and now he felt more anger, mixed with worry, that she would hero herself to death in this madhouse before he had a chance to be angry with her some more.

A voice behind him huffed, "Stoppable, wait!" Will Du tried to keep up, but layers of heavy armor and equipment slowed him down, and worsened his sweat from the inferno's fury. What's more, water began seeping into the collar of his armor, leadening him further still and making everything down below soggy. "You cannot go gallivanting about. I'm responsible for you while you are in this complex."

Ron rounded a corner and skidded to a stop. A wall of flames stretched across the narrow alley where a mountain of boxes had collapsed into conflagration. Will trundled behind him while he searched for a way through. When that turned up nothing, he went to his backup plan. "Rufus," he said, digging into his pocket. Rufus quaked fearfully in Ron's palm as he drew him out, shying from the wet inferno outside the world of Ron's pants. "Buddy," said Ron, "I need you to find Kim. Find her, and tell her I'm on my way."

Tasked with this important mission, Rufus pulled himself together (quite literally) and sprang up into a salute. "Ready," he chattered.

"Help her out 'til I get there," Ron told him. The mountainous flames became an academic study to his eye. He gauged its height and guessed at its depth. Water streamed from his stony face. "I'm going to throw you," he decided at last. "You know what to do." Rufus squeaked an affirmative, less certain now. Sucking in a breath to drown out his prayers, Ron drew his best bud back and hurled him above the flames.

Rufus launched his form out in every direction, spreading his pink putty out into a large, thin sheet. The charcoal claws dangling from each corner twisted down and grasped at one another. Stifling updrafts filled the cupped space above the claws, ballooning Rufus up and over the fires. Rufus steered himself through searing currents toward the building's entrance, vanishing from sight.

"Stoppable," bellowed Will. "I am in charge here. Pay attention!"

Ron whirled around and forced his fists open, spraying water as he went. He would have liked nothing better than to show Will plenty of attention, until the pompous jerk's nose fountained with his attention, but Kim would just scold him for it. Thoughts of the redhead's imagined condescension pickled his brain with anger again. "Okay, then, Doorman Du. You're the boss. So what should we do?"

Mild surprise sobered Will's soaked face. He considered it a moment, and then said, "We should double back and find a different route. We need to find Doctor Director and obtain new orders."

"Wish I'd thought of that," Ron said. He turned and stalked back the way they came.

"And stick close," Will called after him. "As long as you're with me, you'll be saf—"

The last word gargled out of him on a wad of bloody phlegm. Ron spun at his grunt in time to see the blade sprout from the middle of Will's armor, slick and red. Will and Ron both gaped at the dripping blade, mute with horror, frozen in place. The agent tried to speak. More blood dribbled from his mouth. He sunk to his knees, then fell to the floor, revealing the crouched form of his killer, who clutched at the hilt buried in Will's back.

"Ron Stoppable." Lord Monkey Fist greeted him with somber voice. His katana slid out of Will smoothly with the sound of steel scraping bone. Sword in hand, he planted his fingered foot at the fallen agent's side and stood tall and proud. A satchel plump with unknown bounty hung from his shoulder. "I've looked forward to this reunion for quite some time."

Thoughts glaciered through Ron's shock, trying to make sense of the last few moments. Fire without, ice within, rain all around, he somehow found the sense to raise his arms in defense. The gesture brought a smirk to Fist's lips. "You're in on this too?" called Ron. Without bravado, the words sounded hollow.

A chuckle parted Fist's lips. He circled around, slapping scarlet footprints onto the wet cement in his wake. A bloodied knuckle drifted up and traced around the bronzed medallion clasping his robes at his breast. "You could say that," he agreed. The satchel at his hip bounced once, giving an ominous rattle. "I must say, for all his hot air, Drakken's really outdone himself this time."

Catalogues' worth of ancient artifacts and weapons rushed through Ron's mind. Any one of them could spell disaster in Monkey Fist's hands, and Doctor Director had been shortsighted enough to gathering them all in one place, making them ripe for the plucking. Ron tried to force his eyes away from the tepid pool at Fist's feet. His fists shook with a mixture of rage and uncertainty. "'Bout time I spanked the monkey," he shot tonelessly.

"Oh, the toys are nice," said Monkey Fist as he shifted the satchel back. Gangly fingers curled into hammers. A row of graceful toes cracked against the concrete in anticipation. Murder glinted in black, beady eyes. "But I think what I'm most looking forward too," he added, "Is settling our score once and for all, Pretender."

* * *

Kim shook the sputtering palm top with a curse before stuffing it in her pocket. The top-heavy freeze cannon rattled above them with stray shots, while the screams of the frightened and the dying squeezed between the oppressive din of gunfire.

Her thoughts and feelings mashed together in a terrific pile-up: Ron would not be coming; Ron was trapped out there, alone, where she couldn't rescue him; Ron had been such a jerk when she tried to apologize; Ron still didn't know how she felt about…but did she (that thing wish Josh, no shut up, but it was there, **no, shut up**)?

The half second of human weakness fled from Kim as she tossed her head. Her face hardened into that of The Girl Who Can Do Anything, and then looked to Doctor Director and said, "Get your men out of here."

Doctor Director finished loading a fresh clip into her weapon before she gaped at Kim. "You're crazy if you think I'm going to hand over a warehouse of doomsday weapons to She—"

A terrified yowl leapt up, and was silenced just after, near their hiding spot. The heart now locked deep inside of Kim gave a lurch, but she forced it down further still. "Your men aren't equipped to deal with this."

Disbelief dug into the Doctor's face, refusing Kim's offhanded answer. "And what do you think you're going to do?"

Sprinklers sobbed onto Kim's face as she stuck her head out into the bedlam. "What I always do," she muttered.

The hero in her took flight from their refuge, leaving behind a little girl too scared to face the field of lasers and bullets. She did not feel the lead flying past her ears. She did not hear Doctor Director bellowing for her men to retreat. She did not see anything except Shego's leer skirting the edge of the hover car above her. Gone were the trappings of humanity—the doubt, the fear, the weariness—left in the shuffled prints of her boots on the sooty floor.

Kim hurtled over a row of burning crates, simultaneously ducking a Diablo laser that would have decapitated her, then rolled beneath a second shot through a shallow bed of flames back up into a sprint. The majority of Diablos concentrated their fire on the retreating GJ soldiers, but a good dozen of them had taken notice of her. No doubt Drakken had ingrained some of his own hatred of her into his robot minions. Their arms swiveled around, aglow, ready to vaporize her on approach. She welcomed the attack.

She rolled left, unconcerned when streams of photonic death cratered the floor formerly beneath her, and leapt up into the semicircle of robots. They turned inward as her feet struck the chassis of one of their number and leapt away. Their shots too slow, they holed their fellow until he became a belch of fire and shrapnel that propelled Kim into the next one in line. She leapt again from this second robot's hip, scarcely feeling the heat as it exploded from its brethren's sluggish aim. Then she landed on a third, running up its arm. The robot shuddered beneath her in the throes of death, pounded again and again by lasers that didn't find her and didn't concern her. Up the arm and off the head, Kim springboarded from the third Diablo. Her hand snatched the grapnel gun from her hip and fired it on instinct as the bot exploded beneath her, peppering her with tiny shards of shrapnel that stung all across her back and thighs.

The grapnel hook sunk into the antigravity plates on the hover car's undercarriage and tugged Kim skyward. She clicked her heels together and then watched the world blur as a controlled burst of her rocket boots swung her up and around, high above the battlefield. Blinded by the thick smoke and water, she trusted her instincts, cutting the line and the jets at her feet so that she landed on the rim of the floating vehicle.

Shego seemed unimpressed by Kim's entrance. She leaned against the car's controls, giving a yawn. "What kept you, Kimmie?" she asked. A smirk lit her black lips. Through the thick haze, Kim spied an unusual glint on her arch-foe's lapel; a small medallion of burnished gold. She couldn't make out the etchings, though, as Shego's fist had just lit with green danger. Her other hand clutched a tiny cylinder wit ha button atop it. Kim guessed its purpose at once, and forced her watery eyes into a scowl. "Give me that transmitter," she demanded.

Shego's smirk grew. "Make me," she taunted.

Emerald lightning threatened to burn the eyebrows from Kim's face. Kim reeled back and almost fell from the slick surface of the hover car. She bridged her hands behind her feet and kicked up, driving Shego back. Up on her hands, she windmilled her legs and then sprang forward. Her feet found purchase on the floor of the hover car, while her fists found their way to Shego.

The women traded blows, each taking as well as they gave. Kim sacrificed a hit, feeling her ribs crumple beneath Shego's heel while her arm wrapped around the kicking leg and twisted. Shego's head cracked against the metal grating floor. Dazed, she cross-blocked Kim's boot and shoved the teen back, then flipped to her feet. "Trying to crush my skull? That's a little Pee Gee Thirteen for you, isn't it?"

Kim scowled and threw a backfist that forced Shego's smirk to retreat. "People are dying, Shego," she shouted. "Is this a game to you?"

"It's always a game," countered Shego. "You just never play to win."

Rage boiled in Kim's veins. She struck with rekindled vigor, launching a combination that brought her fists across Shego's jaw and up into her stomach. Her foot slipped behind Shego's leg and swept back, thrusting Shego to the floor. Her other foot crushed Shego's wrist, forcing her hand open, which allowed Kim to pluck the transmitter from her palm.

"Look at that," Kim said, raising the cylinder. "I win."

A telltale click wrenched Kim's gut. She caught sight of a blue flash leaving Shego's jacket, but hadn't time or sense enough to move before Shego had a pronged laser pistol leveled at her midsection. The longest instant of Kim's life crawled by as the two women glared at each other, one with an expression of ultimate triumph, the other with dawning horror.

"Ditto," said Shego, and pulled the trigger.

**To Be Continued**


	6. Stealing and Dealing

_All-Purpose Disclaimer_

Kim Possible is a registered trademark of Disney, Inc. All characters, themes, concepts, and copyrighted whatnots are used without permission or profit in this, the finest thing ever written, period. That's right, Shakespeare, I said it. Nuts to you and your Hamlet. What are you going to do about it?

* * *

_Kim swept into her bedroom and leaned against the shutting door. Starlight danced in her eyes, and a smile nested in her lips, where it would stay for the better part of a week despite all the taunting her brothers would undoubtedly muster. Afterglow shone from her radiant face to light the darkened loft. Music kissed her ears in the silence, played on the instrument of memory in the key of a soft and masculine voice that had kept her heart atwitter all night, and continued to do so now. A flock of butterflies danced in her stomach, spreading their tingle throughout the rest of her body._

_She sighed, swooned, and draped herself over her bed. The folds of her dress fluttered around her calves, swaying to the bounce in her toes. Her mouth still tingled with the taste of him. She relished the flavor with eyes squeezed shut, committing to memory every detail of her amazing, exciting, almost-disastrous, absolutely perfect date with Josh Mankey._

_A soft rapping at her window cracked Kim's eye. There in the glass, she saw a cowlicked silhouette crouched on the sill. It scratched at the glass until she rose and pulled the window open, allowing Ron Stoppable to fall headlong into the room. "Hey, KP," he said into the carpet. "Everything solid?"_

_She grasped his hand and helped him off the floor. "I feel solid," she said. "It looks like that miracle flower trick of Wade's worked."_

_Once up, he fell onto her bed. Kim's nose wrinkled at the fetid smell of rotting jungle that permeated his uniform. The rest of her rankled at the thought of that odor soaking into her comforter. An exhausted sigh deflated his chest while his limbs spread akimbo. "Good," he said to the ceiling. "I'd hate to have to go back into the jungle. We didn't get along very well."_

_Angry red lines cluttering his hands and forearms caught her notice when he stretched. "I'll say," Kim said, and knelt down to examine the cuts. None of them appeared deep enough to be of any immediate alarm, but she heard him hiss when her hand traced his palms' injuries._

_Concern must have written itself onto her features, for Ron sat up and said, "It's no big." He tried to pull away. Kim tugged his hand back, intent on examining it to her own satisfaction, not his. "'T'is but a flesh wound," he said in a terrible British accent._

_"These need to be cleaned," Kim announced. "I do not want to think about what you might have picked up in the jungle." Having a physician for a mother had definite drawbacks; after her first jungle mission, a fourteen-year-old Kim had suffered through an hour-long lecture of all the diseases and parasites a tropical rainforest could impart to careless adventurers. Details eluded her, but some of the more memorable symptoms made Kim stand at once and say, "Mom keeps some stuff in the bathroom downstairs. Hang tight."_

_When she at last relinquished his hands, he drew them back slow, looking chagrined. "KP, honest," he said, rising to leave. "I'm fi—"_

_Kim's finger pressed into his lips, silencing him as it pushed him back onto the bed. A motherly tone accompanied her motherly expression when she said, "That wasn't a suggestion. Now park it, and I'll be back in a minute." Still clad in dately accoutrements, Kim kicked off her heels and padded barefoot out the door, closing it behind her. An afterthought made her turn on the third step down and return to her room. Opening the door a crack, she saw that Ron was indeed working his fingers into the window's edge. "And if you're not here when I get back," she said through the door, startling him, "You're in big trouble."_

_She smirked at his 'aw' as the door creaked shut, and then descended the stairs with the confidence that he would wait for her this time. Her feet stepped with skillful softness so that only the rustle of her dress whispered past the doorways of her sleeping family. The giddy feeling left over from her date made her as light as air, so that she could have floated down the hall if she had desired so._

_Once in the bathroom, Kim kept the light off, and groped instead for the knob of the medicine cabinet. The black of night grew thinner with each passing minute, so much so that she could see the outline of the large bottle of iodine squatting in the cabinet's corner. Another moment's searching uncovered a bag of cotton balls that, combined with the faint chemical smell clinging to the bottle, unearthed a host of memories: Missus Doctor Possible must have pulled these supplies from this very cabinet a hundred times before to treat the myriad of minor injuries Kim and Ron had accrued in their early, pre-global misadventures. Now it was Kim's turn, and for no reason she could discern, that notion made her grin._

_Her eyes were well adjusted to the pitch now, and she caught sight of her reflection in the cabinet's mirror as she closed its door. The sight of her smiling visage made Kim stop. Her curved cheeks straightened slowly, though they kept the subtle hue that could hardly be seen in the distilled moonlight._

_Kim ran her fingertips across the faint color. It occurred to her for the first time that night how lucky she had been. Drakken's plan, however ludicrous, had come close to erasing her from existence. If not for Ron and Wade, she would never have had that amazing goodnight with Josh. Just the memory of it made her blush again, and then the darkening of her cheeks chased her grin back into a flat line._

_'He risked a lot to cure me,' thought Kim as she took the iodine and cotton in hand and started back for her room, 'While I traipsed around town with Josh.' A sliver of guilt pricked her post-date joy for a brief moment. She supposed that cleaning his wounds would be a good start to a thank-you._

_She reached the door and opened it softly. "Ron," she whispered, pushing through the door, "I've got the…Ron?"_

_Ron had returned to her bed, where he dozed with a soft snore. Kim slipped into the room and leaned against the closing door. Her eyes drew irresistibly to the rise and fall of his chest. Something compelled her to remain silent and gaze at him as she tiptoed forward. A question pursed her lips, but it had no words to speak, so she contented herself to stand over him in curious study. _

_She felt her stomach settle, as if the flock of butterflies inside had all landed as one. Then the butterflies began to glow, creating warmth that trickled its way to every extremity. Her heartbeat slowed. Her mind cleared. Watching him like that, she felt as though a great sense of peace flowed out of Ron, across her gaze, and filled her from head to toe._

_The moment could have lasted forever, but Ron sensed her presence and stirred, breaking the spell. "Nnnghh…KP?"_

_His voice chased the peace from her body with start. Its absence left her cold and void. "Oh. I, uh…I got it." She sloshed the bottle, and said, "Sit up. Let's take a look at those cuts."_

_"As the lady wishes," kidded Ron, doing as she said. An unnatural silence swallowed their conversation, mimicking the sudden emptiness in Kim as she blotted his hands. She guessed Ron could not stand it either, for he then said, "Um…so…how was your date with Monkey?"_

_The mention of Josh made that flighty feeling jolt back into her body. "It went really great," she exclaimed, welcoming any feeling after the loss of that peace she had experienced a moment ago. She proceeded to regale Ron with a play-by-play of her running battle with Shego, the Tweebs, and embarrassment. In the midst of the story, the fleeting feeling she had while watching Ron sleep became forgotten in a hail of exciting details._

* * *

**Kim Possible  
The Power of Friendship**

_by Cyberwraith9_

* * *

Staring down the barrel of Shego's gun, Kim couldn't help but think she had been cheated. Impending death traditionally brought with it the complete recollections of a lifetime in rapid succession. All she got was that one odd memory, and she couldn't understand why. As strange a final thought as it was to have while Shego pulled the trigger, she felt gypped. 

Liquid twilight spilled out from the twin prongs of Shego's gun. It split the choking, soggy haze and enveloped Kim's body from head to toe. Kim stiffened as a curious tingle swept through her body. Every nerve prickled, and then, just as suddenly, they didn't. The dark glow around her subsided as though drawn back into the gun, and left the two women staring at each other in shock.

Shego cast her emerald confusion onto the weapon in her hand. She gave it a shake, and muttered, "The hell?" She shook it again, harder, and bellowed, "What the f—"

Kim launched her size seven into Shego's stomach. Her kick knocked the villain over the cusp of the hover car. A furious howl vanished into the crackling fires below. Once she was rid of Shego, Kim wasted no time; she tossed the cylindrical transmitter at her feet and stomped it flat.

All over the warehouse, the massive Diablos jolted upright in mid-rampage as if struck and began to implode. They ratcheted into tiny toys and fell into the flames, vanishing into their own handiwork. Gunfire in the Evidence Locker trailed off as the soldiers who hadn't yet evacuated saw their aggressors become children's playthings and melt into an expensive slag carpet on the burning cement.

Kim allowed herself a second's pause to breathe a prayer of gratitude. Then she grasped the control yoke on the dash and nosedived the hover car toward the ground below, pulling up at the last second. The craft bounced onto a heap of soggy, smoldering rubble, smearing its way to a stop. Frigid water deluging from the ceiling trailed off, now more effective without an army of robots to feed the flames. Kim hopped from the car's edge with a heavy curtain of red in her eyes and a sodden, icy uniform and called through cupped hands, "Doctor Director? Doctor Director, are you all right?"

A mound of debris rustled, parted, and spat out a disheveled Doctor Director. She was covered in soot, and her dark uniform sported several bleeding slices. Her hands pressed into a deep gash at her ribs. An awestruck eye opposite her crooked patch found Kim, and gave direction to her staggering steps. "Remind me to give you a raise," grunted the spymaster.

Kim fished a handkerchief from her pocket. She lifted the Doctor's hand from the gash and pressured her wound with the folded cloth. "You don't pay me," Kim reminded her with a thin smile.

"One of my luckier deals," Doctor Director muttered back with a grimace. "I don't think I could afford to keep you on-staff anyway. Too much collateral damage."

The weak humor failed to cement Kim's smile. She sobered as she looked about through the dying flames. Without the threat of immediate death, panic ran free through her innards. She searched wildly for some sign of a yellow tuft, or sooty freckles, but nothing appeared. "Has anyone seen Ron?" she asked. It was a hollow gesture, as only she and Doctor Director remained in the area.

"Kim!" A tiny squeak came from above. Kim looked up in time to catch a pair of black claws on the forehead as a dripping balloon of pink flesh landed and deflated on her forehead. The resultant mole rat scampered down her neck and across her arm to jump up and down on her lofted palm, chattering at a panicked speed too great for Kim to follow.

She held up her other hand. "Rufus! Slow down, Rufus, I can't understand you. What happened? Where's Ron?"

Rufus jabbed his foreclaws toward the field of scattered crates, still hopping anxiously. "There! Hohh, Monkey Fist!"

"Monkey Fist?" Kim's brow dropped at the name, and her entreating hand clenched into a fist. Shego and her Diablos were bad enough. Who knew what Monkey Fist could do with the resources of this villain treasure trove? "Where?" she demanded.

Piles of burning boxes burst apart at the onslaught of two intertwined missiles. Embers spilled from the fire and were snuffed out beneath a wave when the missiles plunged into the massive puddles swamping the floor. The two fighters rolled over and over one another, kicking, biting, and struggling to best the other. Kim caught sight of a yellow flash fly from the tussle as the two fighters separated, and her heart leapt into her throat.

She started to shout his name, but another explosion of debris cut her voice short, as Shego rose from the ashes of ruined crates. Dirty rivers of water rushed down her scowl. "First I get a lemon gun," snarled Shego, "And then I get kicked off of my own car? Oh," she uttered, "That is not gonna fly, Princess." Her eyes found Kim's torch-like hair in the gloom without delay, and the gun still clutched at her side leveled with Kim's chest.

Another ray of nebulous blue light warbled from the end of Shego's gun. Kim sidestepped with wide shot and tossed Rufus clear, realizing too late that Shego hadn't aimed at her. Her chest seized up as Ron became a nimbus of cobalt energy. But as was the case with Kim, the ray did not harm him in the slightest. Ron glanced back at Shego as though she had just shocked him with carpet static, and said, "What the hell was that?"

Or rather, he managed, "Wha—" before hairy knuckles plunged into the pit of Ron's stomach and lifted the blond off his feet. Ron's breath rushed from his body in a grunt. He fell to his knees, unable to move, unable to see past the stars in his eyes. "A fine Chosen One indeed," sneered Monkey Fist to his fallen rival. "Taking your eyes off your opponent. Sloppy."

"Get away from him!" Kim sprang at Monkey Fist with every intention of tearing him apart, only to fall with a cry when a wave of green flames broke upon her back. Water splashed up as her knees met with cold concrete. Agony lanced through her back as Shego grasped Kim from behind and crushed the heroine against her chest.

Flickering fingertips teased Kim's neck as she struggled against the steely arm binding her to Shego. "You should listen to him, Kimmie," Shego hissed in her ear. "Just because my ray gun doesn't work, it doesn't mean you and I can't—"

Kim relaxed every muscle in her body and fell limp. There, Kim planted her hands beneath her and swung both feet up in a double-kick aimed square in the middle of Shego's face. A satisfying crack erupted between Kim's boot and Shego's head, which snapped back, streaming twin ribbons of blood from her nose. Shego barely had time for an incomprehensible roar before Kim dropped down from her handstand into a sweep kick that knocked the villain flat.

She rose with the splash of Shego's body hitting the floor, moving like lightning personified, hearing her voice shout Ron's name from a great distance. She would be too late; Monkey Fist's hand was poised for the killing blow, and there was no way she could reach him in time.

"Last words, Stoppable?" asked Monkey Fist of the gasping, choking boy. His speared hand trembled with anticipation.

Ron still lacked the wind to speak, so an answer of 'Banzai!' came for him as a pink blur leapt from behind Ron and blanketed itself over Monkey Fist's face. The villain cried with a muffled yelp and staggered back, tugging at the impish film on his face. Clumsy fingers tore at his body, but Rufus dug in and refused to budge, sinking his overbite into Fist's forehead, and savoring the resultant howl.

Still running, Kim leapt over Ron's knelt shoulders and into Monkey Fist. Her foot pounded him into a neighboring pile of blackened crates. Rufus unseated himself from Fist's face and fell into Kim's waiting palm. The two of them took a half-second to admire their success while it disappeared beneath tumbling boxes, and then turned back to attend to Ron. "Are you okay?" Kim asked, offering her hand to help him up.

Then she gasped as Ron's fist streaked up at her face. Kim's instincts guided her head left, exactly as Ron expected, which allowed his fist a clear path to the lurking Shego about to impale Kim from behind with a fist of flaming green. His knuckles crushed the bloodied mess that was Shego's nose, reeling her head back. This left her wide open to Kim's horse kick. Shego flew back onto the cement and did not stir, moaning softly as her face bled a pool for her head to rest in.

"Never better," croaked Ron. He allowed Kim to help him up this time without incident. Still working air into his protestant lungs, he said, "Y'know, in retrospect, it was a really bad idea to put all of this really dangerous crap in one place." Rufus jabbered on his shoulder until he received a grateful scratch under the chin from Ron, who gave silent thanks as well in his meaningful look to both of his rescuers.

Kim smirked as she felt him lean against her for support. "I'm starting to agree," she replied.

A violent tremor spiderwebbed the concrete beneath them, and flung their feet up into the air. When they landed hard, another tremor of greater force jostled them on the floor. Powdered concrete leapt from the racks at a third tremor, clouding the air and choking their breath, making it impossible for Kim to see anything. "What is that?" she coughed, and rose to her knees.

**"Konnichiha."  
**

Ron, still on his back, saw the dark shadow through the haze first; a giant's silhouette surrounded Kim from behind. Its arm lifted with a glut of gathering light poised at the end of its open palm. "More bad news," he answered.

"_Ach, look't wha' I found,_" Duff Killigan's amplified voice exclaimed from the unseen speakers of the Z-Boy robot. He sat in the cockpit at its midsection, one-handing the controls. His other hand held a microphone to his fuzzy grin. "An' it had th' keys in it 'n' everything!"

The dust settled, giving Kim, Ron, and Rufus clear view of the cerulean titan about to vaporize them. The teens took one look at each other and then rolled opposite ways. Both felt the heat and the impact of the plasma cannon atomizing they spot they had abandoned. The blast was brief, and a second show was slow to come, for Duff couldn't decide which target to chase. Then a flash of flipping red caught his eye, and the Z-Boy's arm swiveled to follow it. The cannon powered up and fired again, this time in continuous burst.

Dust and fear clung to Ron as he rolled to his feet. He looked for Kim, and found her a half-step ahead of a yellow column of death that tracked her across the floor, leaving scorched nothingness wherever it touched. "Kim!" he shouted, and bolted toward the legs of the robot.

A clothesline strike caught him across the throat. His feet flipped up while he gagged, horizontal, and dropped flat onto the floor. He swung his legs up over his head, rolling back into a crouch on instinct, but the move carried him into a kick from behind that sprawled him face-down into the wet, ashen floor. "Going somewhere, Stoppable?" Monkey Fist's voice sounded like a whisper in Ron's ringing ears. A second kick pounded into Ron's side, rolling him over with an agonized groan. "Why not stay and catch up?"

Kim found shelter between the Z-Bot's legs, where its cannon could not follow. The immense robot could hardly move for all the scattered bric-a-brac in the warehouse. She sucked in a breath of relief, only to expel it as a cry when she saw the robot's torso swivel around to aim an arm at a living blur of arms and legs that had a familiar streak of cowlicked straw in it. The whine of plasma buildup filled the air, but neither Ron nor Fist had any inkling that they were the new targets. With no grapnel gun left, Kim clicked her heels together and rocketed up the Z-Bot's back, praying her boots had enough fuel for this last full-burn jump.

The fighters on the floor swung into frame on Killigan's cockpit screen. A red rectagle danced and then solidified around them. "I don' know what happened, Drakken," the pilot sang to himself with practicing innocence. "He jus' leapt into th' line o' fire when I took out th' dippit. Tragic, really." His thumb traced a circle around the top trigger of the controls in his meaty clutches. A sneer dawned in his beard as he muttered, "No more sidekick, an' a bigger slice o' th' pie for Duff. Win-win, Boyo."

Coughing their last, the rockets in Kim's boots carried her into the cockpit. She saw Ron over Killigan's shoulder, centered in his screen, and kicked the robot's controls without a second's hesitation. The robot's arm jerked to the left as Killigan's thumb mashed the trigger, sending a concentrated beam of energy into a stack of crates a dozen feet from Ron and Fist. Whatever the crates contents, they exploded violently, throwing all three onto the floor.

Killigan swiveled his reddening face back at the hero. As he turned, Kim caught sight of the same golden medallion that the others wore on his chest. He moved much slower compared to Fist or Shego, and so she could discern its embossing: a round, plump heart, with a crack running up its middle. Understanding of this strange heist struck Kim just before Killigan did. His backhand spun her in place while he shouted, "Ye tarty little tramp! I'll teach ye to—"

Their cramped cockpit rocked at an unseen force, tossing them about. Thrown against the railing of the open pit, Kim saw a shape down below glaring up at them with one good eye. It was Doctor Director, whose left arm hung in a sling made from her torn sleeves, and whose right arm helped shoulder the massive cannon balanced next to her head. Even at such great height, Kim could hear the Doctor's every word between her cannon's white-hot blasts: "Get. Out. Of. My. **Base**."

Doctor Director's shots scattered across the Z-Bot, blowing craters in its armor the size of fully-loaded minivans. The controls at Killigan's back spat fat sparks as the systems attached to it overloaded. As Killigan turned to deal with the problem, Kim leapt into a new attack, only to lose her footing when the Z-Bot gave another lurch. She stumbled back and hit the railing hard. The world flipped around her, stealing the floor away as she flipped over the railing bar. Her quick hand snatched the bar and held fast, denying gravity her demise, but not by much. There, she dangled, clinging desperately as the robot shuddered beneath Doctor Director's onslaught.

The Doctor squeezed her trigger again and again, reveling in the jolt that ran through her body every time her gun disgorged another gout of chemical fire. Uncharacteristic fury wrote itself in her eye as she dismembered the enormous and very valuable technological marvel in her care. "Blasting apart three billion dollars' worth of one-of-a-kind robotics," she grunted to herself. "I really shouldn't be enjoying myself this much."

A burst of emerald toppled her from behind. The injured Doctor's head struck the concrete hard, and she lost consciousness before she heard Shego say, "That's enough of that." Cupping a hand to her mouth, she shouted, "That's it. We're gone, now. Killigan, get out of that idiot toy and haul your skirt into the car."

"Jus' a second," called Killigan. He braced himself against the railing of the tilted cockpit and grinned down at the dangling hero and the ground far beneath her feet. A hateful look poisoned her beauty as she watched him draw a drier from his bag. His movements were slow, allowing him to savor the moment. "I jus' need t' take care of a loose end here."

The driver cracked onto the bar where Kim's hand would have been had she not swung it away. She brought it back in time to yank its opposite away from Killigan's next blow. Back and forth, she switched her arms up. Numb crept into her fingers as each near miss made her grip weaken a little more.

The distant clang of metal on metal reached Ron beneath the pile of splintered rubble he resided under. Still groggy from the blast, he sat up and rubbed his head, ignoring the flotsam that slid from his chest. His eyes drew at once to the dancing tail of red at the Z-Bot's midsection, and he flew into a fit of hysterical clarity.

"KP!" he cried, and launched himself from the pile. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Shego and Monkey Fist piling into the hover car, as well as a half dozen henchmen he hadn't seen before, all laden with great sacks filled with who-knew-what. The satchel at Fist's hip caught his notice for a split second, and sent a ghost of a tingle up his spine. But he couldn't dwell on that as Kim lost her grip and fell into the open air.

Ron drew and fired his grapnel gun in one smooth motion. The razor hook shot straight and true for the Z-Bot's knee, from which he could swing up and catch her…

"Yes!" he exclaimed.

…and then he saw his pants fluttering in its wake, taking with them the end of the grapnel line and his chances of reaching Kim.

"No!"

Kim tumbled past the grapnel as it sunk into the bot's knee joint. Freefall pulled at her stomach, making thought difficult and panic easy. But then she caught sight of a khaki flag waving somewhere beneath her, guiding her hands to it as she fell past. She caught the material in a death grip. The world around her lurched against her screaming arms with the sound of ripping fabric, then swung her violently into the leg of the robot. The impact rattled her teeth, and dazed her into inaction while the khaki in her hands tore free from its source. She fell the remaining distance to the floor, and landed atop a fretful mound of friend.

She stared up in mute, winded shock, lying still while the thing that broke her fall wormed out from beneath her. Her eyes locked in on the cockpit railing high above them. Her stupefied brain marveled at the distance of the drop until Ron's face blocked it from view. "Kim! Kim, are you okay?"

Kim caught a fleeting glimpse of the hover car winding its way out the hole it had come in. Its movements were sluggish with cargo. Her shock faded quickly, and she sat up, regretting it in the next instant when her arms and back shrieked shrill protest. Bereft of energy and breath, she leaned forward, staring intently at the disappearing hover car. "No," she said hoarsely.

Ron looked ready to hug her. He almost did so, but some remembered qualm spoiled the relief in his face, and stopped him at the last minute. "I…I'm glad you're not hurt bad," he said.

Odd pressure drew Kim's eyes down to her fists. There, strips of khaki material were clenched in afterterror. It occurred to her what she was grasping as she saw the polka dot boxers Ron displayed in place of his pants. She offered him a weak smile as thanks, and said, "That was some quick thinking with the grapnel."

Ron reddened, slapping his bare thighs. "Yeah. Exactly like I planned it…"

* * *

"And then what'd she say?" pressed Monique. She draped herself across the apartment's futon, upside-down, slurping on the juice box she had stolen from their fridge to quell the anticipatory fires of her curiosity. 

Ron propped himself off the floor, his breathing slow and deep as he worked through push-ups (or push-downs, as the flipped Monique saw them). Sweat soaked into the mesh tank top draped from his wiry muscles, yellowed the tape pulled taught across his fractured ribs, and dripped from his furrowed brow. He hadn't slept since they'd gotten back in the first hours of morning, searching instead for things to occupy his buzzing mind with into the late hours of the afternoon.

He oscillated a few more times without a sound, rounding out his third set with a grunt of, "…forty-nine…fifty." Then he rolled over onto his back. "Nothing," he tossed at Monique before curling up into crunches.

Monique blinked. "Nothing," she repeated around her straw. "You two are mega mad at each other, save each other's lives, and you didn't say anything?" The last of her juice went noisily before she crumpled the waxy box and tossed it at Ron's head. "Neither of you brought up the topic of, oh, I don't know…last night?"

The box bounced off of his concentration unnoticed. "People died, Monique. People we knew and worked with, and the people that did it got away with all the marbles." He threw a few punches at the apex of his crunch, grunting softly. "You remember that part, right?"

"Sure I do, gorgeous," she said brightly. "But the thought of people I've helped you fight for the past year or so up and killing a warehouse full of trained professionals is too terrifying for me to deal with, because it means my dainty noggin could be next on the block."

"Okay, point." Ron admitted.

"So," continued Monique, rolling onto her stomach, "I bury it by focusing on your defunct love life…which I can't help but notice you avoiding by talking about mission stuff."

"Got me again," he grunted dismissively. The rate of his crunches increased.

"And the idea that you're more comfortable talking about killer robots than your dream girl dumping on you is a level of sad I didn't even know existed. When a guy'd rather discuss bots instead of babes…"

Ron collapsed onto his back and glared her into silence. "Monique," he shot, exasperated.

Her thoughtful expression softened into one of empathy. She leaned forward and rose up on her elbows, drawing closer. "Ron, she's the love of your life. You can't tell me you're not angry. I'm angry, and I'm not the one she heart-broke," she noted with dry amusement.

Ron's face unclenched into a blank wall that stared up at the ceiling. For a long moment, Monique watched his glistening chest rise and fall at a measured tempo. His quivering eyes stared into infinity. "I was so angry at her," he murmured to the air. "I thought I was going to go out of my mind."

"Was?" prompted Monique.

His eyes flicked to her. "When she fell," he confessed, "All I could think about was how stupid it would be if she died before we made up."

Monique squinted and rubbed her head. "So," she said with a grimace, "For those of us keeping score at home, you are now…?"

Stubborn scowling slouched across his brow again. He threw his legs into the air and lifted his shoulders off the ground, rising onto flat palms. Once his handstand became stable, he bent at the elbows, rising and falling with smooth, slow repetition. He spoke on each exhale as he pushed up, facing Monique with an inverted, undirected glare. "I'm angry," he rasped. "I'm angry with Kim…for going back to Josh. I'm angry at Monkey Fist…for kicking my ass. I'm angry at Shego…and Killigan…for almost killing Kim. And I'm angry at me…for ever thinking…that Kim would go for…a schmuck like me."

Ron thumped to the floor, breathing hard. He welcomed the ache running through his arms, grateful for anything to dull the ache in his chest. Monique craned herself over him and said, "That's a lot of angry."

"Yeah," he rasped.

He squirmed over to make room for Monique as she descended from the futon. She lay beside him, staring up at the ceiling as he did, and said, "So why not talk to her about it?"

"I don't want to talk about it," said Ron.

She looked over at him. "You're talking to me about it."

He returned the look with mild disgust. "You picked my lock with a credit card and started talking about it after I told you to go away."

"It was a student ID," she stated matter-of-factly, "And you're avoiding the issue. You aren't dealing with this."

A snort rippled Ron's nose. He flipped over and pushed away from the ground, rising onto his fingertips as he started a new set of push-ups. "Sure I am," he grunted into the floor. He didn't need to look to know that Monique wasn't convinced, but he was too angry to care.

Monique propped her feet onto the small of his back on his next dip. "All the push-ups in the world won't fix this. You need to talk to Kim about this." A frown soured her mocha face. She twisted her head against the carpet, searching the apartment as though she had lost something. "Where is Kim, anyway?"

Ron abandoned his push-ups and rested his chin on folded arms. "She's at home," he said. "Whenever Kim has a close call, she spends some time with the folks. Helps her deal."

"And how do you deal?"

He slithered out from under her feet and into another handstand. Once balanced, he raised one of his arms out to one side and then, one-handed, resumed his shoulder presses. "This pretty much is me dealing," he grunted, red-faced.

Monique gazed at the display. A small, impressed noise escaped her curling lips. "By all means," she said, ogling his washboard stomach as his tank top slipped up his chest, "Deal away."

The front door opened and closed, admitting a set of footsteps whose owner remained hidden from Monique on the other side of the futon. "Hello?" Kim's voice called. "Ron?"

Ron bounced, switching his arms. He kept his eyes trained on the ground, and doubled his tempo as he answered, "Nope. Just a burglar. I broke in, and when I didn't see anything worth stealing, I decided to exercise instead." None of the usual humor came in his voice. Monique watched his features harden and seal themselves. Even his anger vanished. She had never seen him clam up before, especially not around Kim, and it startled her.

A joyless chuckle echoed from the kitchen as cabinets opened and closed. Monique kept silent, listening to the running sink and the clap of metal settling onto the stove. "I'm putting a kettle on," she heard Kim say entreatingly. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

"Sure. Nothing beats leaf juice." Ron rolled onto the floor and lay spread-eagle.

The clatter of teacups carried Monique through their terse silence. She found herself holding her breath, both fascinated and upset by this change between her friends. It took great effort to keep herself from poking her head up and over the futon to see Kim's face when the redhead said, "Ron…about last ni—"

"How're the family doctors?" Ron asked quickly. He made no move to rise, and kept is face and voice painfully neutral.

"Huh? Oh." A pang echoed in Kim's voice. "They're fine. Tweebs too, though they're a little steamed that they missed out on last night's mission." She gave another empty laugh. "Can you imagine?"

Ron sat up, staring intently at the dormant TV. Monique guessed he was watching Kim in its reflection. "Yeah," he muttered.

Monique saw Kim's features sidle in over the top of the futon, and suppressed a gasp; Kim looked more tired than she had ever seen. The dark circles of a woman twice her age hung heavy under her dull eyes. She had pulled her hair back into a greasy, unshowered ponytail that bobbed behind her rumpled T-shirt. Kim took a deep breath and began, "Ron, about…" but then her eyes flicked down past Ron's back, discovering Monique at the foot of the futon. "Monique?"

He turned, impassive. "What about her?"

Monique rose from the floor. "Hey," she greeted Kim, adopting Ron's passivity.

They stood in awkward silence, staring at each other. Monique could feel Kim probing her with her eyes. The redhead pleaded for some sign of understanding or support, but Monique wasn't ready to give her either yet. Ron's tale of the disastrous dinner still rubbed the inside of her stomach raw. That made it easy for Monique to keep her expression frosty.

Unable to weather the quiet, Kim glanced at her watch and pretended to realize the time. "Wow, it's getting late." She glanced back at Monique and asked, "You wanna stay for dinner? I'm sure we could throw something together."

Ron rushed Kim's suggestion before Monique could answer. "You've got dinner with Josh tonight," he told the television. Voice steady as a rock, his hands quaked into fists. Monique noticed, and couldn't imagine Kim missing it. "Isn't he supposed to pick you up soon?"

Kim slapped her forehead. "Oh my God," she moaned, and collapsed onto the futon. "I totally spaced on that. He's supposed to pick me up in…an hour!" She paused, staring at the back of Ron's head in contemplation. "You know," she said slowly, "I bet if I called, he wouldn't mind if I rescheduled." Another pause, this one hopeful. "I could stay—"

"You should go." Ron turned around. The hollow look where his smile should have been struck a chord in Monique. "It'd be way rude to flake on him an hour before your date." He swallowed, opened his mouth, and then closed it, and turned away.

"It's not a date," said Kim. She sunk further into the futon. "And we should—"

"No," Monique heard herself say, "No, it's cool. We were planning on heading out around then anyway, Ron." With only a moment's hesitation, she added, "For our date."

The effect was immediate, and exactly as desired; both Kim and Ron whirled around with wide-eyed shock. He said, 'What?' as she croaked, 'Date?' Both were on their feet in a flash.

Ron found his voice again first, but all he could do was reiterate, "What?" His dumbfounded expression alone made it worthwhile for Monique, and put a confident smile on her face.

"Our date," she said again. His mouth flapped without word while she sauntered over, sliding her hips up against his and wrapping an arm around his waist. "How could you forget? We've been planning it for weeks now." She gave him a most un-Monique-like giggle. Her finger traced the hard line between his pecs, which she eyed with a predatory lust.

"Weeks?" squeaked Kim.

"What?" uttered Ron.

Monique leaned in on tiptoe and planted a kiss on his cheek. The gesture lingered long past friendly lengths before she pulled back, and clicked her teeth at his earlobe playfully. Her hand skirted the edge of his tank top and teased his chest. "I'll be back in an hour," she whispered in his ear loud enough for Kim to hear. "Make sure you come prepared. You dig?"

Horror crept into Kim's face. Her fists shook white at her sides, and she whispered, "Prepared?"

"W-what?" said Ron, looking frightened.

She just smiled, and patted his cheek before strolling for the door. "See you in an hour, Hot Stuff," Monique called over her shoulder. The flabbergasted faces Kim and Ron wore almost made her laugh aloud. As she slipped through the door, she looked straight through Kim to Ron with lustful eyes, and purred, "And dress nice. I like my presents to look pretty before I unwrap them."

Ron's lips formed a new 'What?', but he couldn't manage the sound. Instead, he watched the door click shut behind Monique, and felt the hurt and confused gaze pour from Kim's watering eyes, as he tried to figure out exactly what the hell had just happened.

**To Be Continued

* * *

**Dearest reader, I have been unforgivably remiss, both as an author and a human being (or as near as I can pass for one). In the recent months, I received an unbelievable piece of fanart for my story, Finding Providence, and I haven't once plugged the artist or the art. I can only attribute my thoughtlessness to some form of slow-acting brain asphyxiation, and do my best to make up for it:

The artist is Porphyria-Kris, and if you haven't seen her work (KP or otherwise), you're missing out. The art in question is entitled "Yeah, I'm a Bastard That Way..." one of my favorite lines taken from that story. You can find her on Deviant Art under her aforementioned moniker. Check the picture out while you cruise her archive. I for one keep it on the cover of my three-ring binder for Textual Analysis: my favorite picture kept on the binder of the class I like the least. It's just that little extra bit that helps me get through the day.


	7. With Good Intentions

_All-Purpose Disclaimer_

Love™ is the registered property of The Hallmark Corporation. All rights and properties therein are reserved, and used here without permission in this fanfiction. Kim Possible and her colleagues absolve themselves of any legal responsibilities involved in its following use, and acknowledge the inherent stupidity in attempting to find, use, or otherwise interact with, love.

* * *

_"…and that's pretty much the train wreck that is my life," said Kim. She set her teacup down and leaned across the table, letting her carefully measured expression slide into despair. Her tired eyes plunged into the depths of the murky beverage, catching sight of her reflection on the way. Nothing else in this tastefully decorated kitchen had given answer to her problems. Maybe the brew knew something about love and life that she didn't. "What do you think?"_

_The tea said nothing. Instead, her mother answered from across the table, "It sounds like you two got derailed somewhere. Now the question is, how do you get back on track?"_

_Kim groaned at the cute smile Missus Possible offered from around a cup of tea she had nursed all through her daughter's story. "Puns? This is serious, Mom. I screwed up royal, and now I need your help." Faltering, she whined, "Isn't there some sort of Mother's Handbook for getting daughters through things like this?"_

_ "I'm sorry," Missus Possible said. She set her teacup down and laced her fingers together. "I must have lost that pamphlet in my Mom Orientation Folder." Another irritated look spoiled her daughter's haggard beauty. "Well, don't worry. I think I can help." Leaning forward to match Kim's posture, she asked, "How many dates have you gone on, Sweetie?"_

_Kim balked at the query. "Me and Ron? None, really."_

_"No, Kim," her mother said, "Total. Overall. Ever."_

_Red rushed into Kim's cheeks. She fidgeted and said, "I don't know…five?"_

_Missus Possible nodded. "Okay. And out of those, how many of them ended with you roundhousing some goon through a window?"_

_Her red brightened. "'Bout half," mumbled Kim. "I don't see how this helps."_

_"Hush," chided her mother. "I'm about to dole out wisdom. Are you ready?" She took another sip of tea while Kim flopped back against her seat with an impatient breath. "All right, here it is." With a pause for dramatics, she said, "You have no idea what you're doing."_

_"Are you kidding me?" Kim slapped her hands on the table. "That's what I've been saying!"_

_"But you don't understand what it means," Missus Possible explained patiently. "Kim, Sweetie, I watched you grow up much faster than any other child I've ever seen. You learned so quickly, and you've done amazing things. We're so very proud of you…"_

_Kim grimaced. "I sense a 'but' coming."_

_Missus Possible smirked. "But," she said, "You missed out on a lot of other things that more…'traditional' teenagers go through."_

_Kim deflated onto the table. Crimson misery carpeted her face as she buried it into her arms. "So I'm a freak, and now I'm paying for it," she muttered into the tablecloth. "Is that it?"_

_A pat on her head pulled her eyes up into her mother's consoling features. "You're learning how to date. It would have been nice if you learned it when you were fifteen, but that's neither here nor there anymore."_

_"Fine," grunted Kim. "I've been epiphanied. Boo. Yah. So what do I do now?" She dipped her pinkie into her tea and swirled her reflection into something that better matched her insides. "I know there's something between Ron and me. But I felt something for Josh, and I can't explain why, or what it was."_

_"So talk about it," Missus Possible told her._

_Kim threw her hands in the air. "I am talking about it!" she exploded._

_That motherly shake of her head infuriated Kim. "Not to me, to Ron. As a mother, all I can do is offer up platitudes." With a sage nod, she decided, "This sounds like best friend territory."_

_"But Ron's part of the problem," protested Kim._

_"Which makes him the best person for the job," Missus Possible insisted._

_Kim's next outburst died in its infancy. She kept her eyes on her tea's reflection, watching it coalesce back into a muddy picture of a confused and sad girl. Then, in a quiet voice, she asked, "Do you think he'll be angry?" _

_Her mother's smile took a turn for the sympathetic. "I imagine he already is. And he will be again," she predicted. "But Ron's stuck by you through a lot of hard times. I can't see him giving up on you over a little spat."_

_The 'little spat' weighed on Kim's mind, dipping her toward that sad wretch trapped in her teacup. All her worst fears of a relationship with Ron were coming true; if she and Ron became…then their friendship would be forever changed, maybe even gone. How could she let herself feel anything for him if it cost her Ron's friendship?_

_"Yeah," she muttered. "Ron's great like that."_

* * *

**Kim Possible  
The Power of Friendship**

_by Cyberwraith9_

* * *

Kim sat at her vanity, watching the tired figure in her mirror run through the gamut of glamour products set out before her with only a sliver of her attention. She drifted in and out of that conversation with her mother earlier in the afternoon as a cracking voice coming from the countertop beside her hands continued its ten-minute rattling of a list that showed no signs of slowing. 

_"Eight plasma bazookas,"_ continued Wade, speaking through the Kimmunicator, _"Three hundred kilos of plastique, one Pan Dimensional Vortex Inducer, a thousand exploding golf balls, three different death rays, each with a total output of one point twenty-one gigawatts, a harpoon gun, the Doom Vee, nine impounded hover cars—"_

She tossed her foundation onto the vanity top with a sigh. "Stop, Wade. Enough. Shego, Killigan, and Monkey Fist couldn't possibly have taken all of this. It sounds like you're reading the inventory for the entire goddamned Locker."

His tiny face became apologetic. _"I pretty much am. Aside from all the stuff you guys visually accounted for, or blew up yourselves, almost all of the items stored in the Evidence Locker were destroyed in the fires and explosions. GJ is still sifting through the material, but…"_ His voice strained and shrank. _"They took some heavy losses back there. It'll take time to figure out what was torched and what was taken."_

"And in the meantime," she groused, "You're telling me there's nothing we can do about it."

_"Sorry, Kim,"_ Wade gloomed. _"I'm running searches for this new Legion of Villainous Evil, but so far I've got nothing. And Mister Voice is still under my radar, too."_ Brightening, he said, _"But at least this gives you a little break. I know you've been tired lately, and you have that big date tonight with Jo—"_

Kim's thumb smashed the device's central button, banishing Wade from the room. The Kimmunicator scraped against the scratched surface of her vanity as she swept it into her purse and zipped it into confinement, where she vowed it would stay until it became useful again, or until her anger subsided, whichever came first. 'Little know-it-all,' she grumbled silently. 'And it's not a date. Josh is…'

Josh Mankey. The butterflies in her stomach gave a collective twitter at the thought of his impending arrival, but nothing more. For the most part, they had settled in against the typhoon squalling in Kim's innards, pulled from parts unknown by a heavenly body and her dark chocolate smile.

Monique. Just the thought of her name pulled another tsunami from her bile to bash the butterflies back down. All this time, Kim thought her a trustworthy confidant, someone who supported Kim through her uncertainty. How long had she been lusting after Ron? And did Ron lust after Monique?

Ron.

"See?" her reflection said, as it applied a hint of mascara above Kim's eyes. "This is why best friends can't date. It complicates things."

Kim paid her no mind. She was too occupied in trying to dodge the deluge of horrors her imagination flooded forth: Ron and Monique, intertwined on the dance floor, circling to the beat of a slow song. Her arms draped around his neck so naturally, she could have been doing it for years. His arms met at the small of her back, and cupped her curves in a way that made Kim ache. Monique lifted her head from his shoulder to whisper some unheard nothing in his ear that gave him a smile. Then her lips brushed a trail across his cheek until they found his lips, and…

She crushed her eyelids shut.

"It's probably better this way," insisted her reflection, who ran a brush through her clean, silken hair. "You didn't know whether or not to love him. Now you can stay friends, date Josh, and Ron and Monique can play pelvis hockey. Everybody wins."

Kim's eyes snapped open. She slammed her brush down, and barked, "I don't want—" But an ordinary reflection mimicked her in the mirror. The dissenting image had fled. Sullen, Kim fell back into her chair and groaned. Her simple black dress lurked in the corner of her eye, hanging from her closet door. "Okay," Kim muttered to herself, and rubbed carefully at her eyes. "New rule: No dating when you haven't slept properly in three days."

She dressed in silence, mulling over her own words. It was not a date, she affirmed to herself. Ron had every right to be angry with her for missing that dinner, and she still felt sick with guilt over that. But he couldn't tell her who to see or not see, especially if it was just two old friends getting reacquainted. So why did that, too, make her feel guilty?

Soft noise pulled her notice toward the living room. She cracked her door, and saw a tall, handsome man struggling into a suit jacket. It took an extra second for her to realize it was Ron; something about the sharp, formal clothes he wore rubbed her in an unnatural way. "Hey, she called softly, and pushed her door open.

Ron turned back from the mirrored door of the open dragon cabinet. A mangled tie trapped his fingers near his neck. "Hey," he said back. She watched his eyes traverse her from head to heel and widen with appreciation. She felt better about her makeup technique in disguising her fatigue, and smiled when he said, "You look good."

"Thanks," she said. Kim's smile faded as her gaze drew back to the mirror behind him, and then across the rest of the cabinet. The sculpted cherry had arrived with Yori, and had remained at the young ninja's behest so that Ron might "have something to remember his stay in Japan" by. The more selfish part of Kim felt as though it remained as a reminder of the responsibility thrust upon her when Yori had stepped aside. Seeing the beautiful cabinet invariably brought thoughts of its beautiful origin, and the unspoken promise she and Kim had made. As Kim's eyes wandered back to Ron, she wondered if Yori would be disappointed in her. She certainly felt that way sometimes.

Readied words of apology shriveled in her mouth as Ron turned away, still fumbling with his necktie. She contented herself to watch him, allowing herself another, more genuine smile while she listened to him grunt and wrestle the accessory into submission. "Stupid piece of…" he muttered.

Kim swept to his rescue, pulling his hands away from the knot. "Here," she said, "Let me help." He shied from her touch, but she kept her hands at his tie with gentle insistence. She bathed his uncertain face in green annoyance, and said, "Stop fighting. You want to look nice for your date, and choking to death on your own tie won't do the trick."

The matronly tone quelled him to stillness. "Thanks," he mumbled, abashed. He locked his eyes over the top of her head to the kitchen counter. "Rufus usually does this for me, but I can't get the lazy little booger to wake up."

She grunted a noncommittal answer and focused on getting his tie right. "There," she said. Her hands lingered at his collar of their own accord, long after the job was done. She felt eyes brush her brow, and looked up into his silent gaze. The instant their eyes met, all the thunder and fury and bluster in her stomach fell silent. In their place arose a powerful peace, so quiet, so absolute, that Kim felt her very soul settle at its touch. Curious warmth pulsed from her core to touch every part of her. It chased the fatigue out of her body, leaving her with stunned serenity she could not explain, nor wished to.

"Thanks," he said again, breathless this time. Whatever the spell, it seemed to touch Ron also. But it didn't last; "So, you…you're really going out with Monkey." The awe in his face crumpled into poorly masked jealousy.

Kim tried, but she could not hold onto that sense of peace. Only a shred remained as her innards' tempest flared to life once more. Still in his gaze, she murmured, "You're really going out with Monique?"

Hearing the notion out loud startled Ron. He jerked back, and then sunk into an emotional quagmire. "Yah. Mon an' me, al the way," he said tonelessly. "Just not sure if Monique can handle all this Ron, y'know?"

Her hands drifted from his tie, smoothing his shirt front on their way to his shoulders. The shiver she felt run through him fed her own turmoil. "Then maybe we should call the whole thing off. You could call Monique, and I could call Josh, and we could stay here." Kim felt terror clutching at her throat as she watched his face become uncertain. "We can talk about…well, we can talk," she said, and bit her lip.

Ron fell into her eyes. "KP," he said with trembling lips, "I…"

A knock at the door broke their gaze. Kim tried to think of something to say to bring him back as he slid out from under her hands to answer the door.

Her breath came out bitter and silent when he let Monique in from the hallway. She was decked out in a slinky red dress that mapped every one of her curves in luscious detail. Lustrous curls bounced atop her head, and a golden chain hung around her neck, drawing the eye (Ron's, no doubt) down the cleavage mountained between the straps of her dress.

She rose on the tips of her high heels and planted a kiss on Ron's cheek, pointedly looking at Kim as she did. "Lookin' good, Gorgeous," she gushed over him. Then her voice cooled to add, "Hello, Kim."

"Monique," Kim replied, equally frosty.

The bombshell blindsided Ron with a dazzling smile. She leaned back against his chest and wrapped her arms up around his neck. Shock started his body, enticing her hips to swing against his. "So, you ready?" she purred up at him. "I thought we'd have an exquisitely romantic dinner for two at the Fancy Truffle tonight." He managed a weak nod while she ran her fingers through his hair. Her smile grew, and her hips dug deeper into his. She leveled a smug look at Kim and said, "You sure feel ready."

Kim could not hear Monique's next words, for a pounding anger filled her ears. She unclenched her jaw to say, "Actually, Monique, we were just talking about staying in. With so much material swiped from Global Justice, and a villain team-up on our hands—"

"Nice try," sang Monique. Her hand dipped into her purse, coming back with a lilac Kimmunicator. "I talked to Wade, and I know for a fact he told you what he told me: until he turns up something, there's nothing either of you can do." The device plopped back into her bag. With a triumphant expression, Monique crowed, "Check and mate. Looks like I get your king, Kimmie."

An excuse pooled on Kim's tongue when another knock pulled everyone's attention back to the door. A blue eye peered in through the crack. "Hello?" Josh called uncertainly. He knocked again, brushing the door open further. "Is this...Kim?"

New life sprang into Kim's butterflies. They braved the storm in her stomach for the crisp sports jacket, dress slacks, and shined shoes carrying Josh's hesitant handsomeness. The ice in Kim's voice thawed as she said, "Hi. You look…great." Juxtaposed with Ron, Kim couldn't help but notice the difference; Josh looked stylish in formalwear, whereas Ron looked like an uncomfortable child in Sunday school.

"Thanks," said Josh. He caught sight of the couple intertwined nearby. "Hey, Ron. Monique? Haven't seen you since graduation."

"Hmm? Yeah," Monique hummed icily. She slid her finger down Ron's trembling jaw line, giving Josh a bored look.

Josh frowned quizzically at the cold reception, missing the furious look Kim gave Monique. "Um, okay." A smile returned to Kim's face when he looked to her and asked, "Are you all set?" She nodded, and took his proffered arm. "Great!" On their way back to the door, Josh cast the unlikely couple another look, noticing their clothes. "Are you guys going out tonight too?"

An answer flapped in silence at Ron's mouth while Monique let her hands roam. "Going out," she answered airily, "Coming in…who knows what tonight will bring?"

Kim growled an incoherent curse and clutched Josh's arm. He stumbled after her in tow. "C'mon, Josh," she said. "I know this quaint little bistro you're going to love." His protests went ignored as Kim dragged him out of the apartment.

The instant the door shut, Monique slithered off of Ron with a chuckle. "That ought'a green up her peepers," she said with a nasty look of satisfaction. Then her look fell away for confused curiosity when she caught sight of Ron's flabbergasted gape. "Um…is there a problem?"

"I understand that I am not a bright individual." Ron stammered, red-faced, keeping his eyes locked front and unblinking; "But in this case, I'm extra lost. So please, feel free to explain this to me in tiny words while I correct a minor blood flow issue."

Monique grinned, and smoothed her dress over the sensuous lines of her body. "If you like the wrapper, wait 'til you try the candy inside." Then she snickered and slapped Ron on the chest. "C'mon, enough foolin' around. That outfit may fly for the usual nine-to-five," she told him, fingering his tie, "But when Monique goes to work, she takes it from the pm to the am. So go change. I'll raid Kim's closet for something more comfortable."

She made it halfway to Kim's room, already fumbling with the zipper at her dress' back, by the time Ron found his voice. "Wait. But…you said…"

Her smile turned sly. "That was for Kim's benefit. I thought we'd try having fun instead." Monique sauntered through the door and checked it shut with her hip. "Don't keep me waiting," she called through the closing crack.

* * *

"Single file," barked Dementor. "One at a time, just—Don't you DARE set that on the floor, you dundering oaf, or I will personally eviscerate you with a butter knife and feed you to a malnourished dachshund!" 

The henchman in question yanked his sack of pilfered components up off the swept sanctum floor and fell into step behind his fellows in line. They stood as directed before a table, from which Professor Dementor barked his orders. Behind him, the half-completed Entropy Cannon squatted on a tripod, towering over the barren room. Clinging mites clad in red—the remaining half of Drakken's forces—crawled across the cannon's casing, tightening joints and strengthening welds. Their employer stood at the Cannon's feet, begoggled and whistling a jaunty tune as he worked at the Cannon's innards from its underneath.

Dementor sifted through the pile of components gathering on his table. A clipboard roosted in the crook of his arm, where it awaited a check from his pen every time he found one of the pieces he needed. "Loathe though I am to admit," Dementor called to his counterpart beneath the cannon, "It appears as though your plan was a great success. Some of this equipment looks to be in near-mint condition."

"Naturally," answered Drakken. He kept his goggles on his work, and noted, "What better place is there to get spare parts for a Doomsday engine than from mothballed Doomsday engines?"

Joyous hooting sounded in agreement from Killigan's direction. He lurked in a heap of his own liberated artillery: dozens of clubs, a crate of explosive golf balls, and more conventional weapons of extraordinary girth and menacing potential than he could wield with three times as many arms. "I'll say," he crowed, checking the power cells on an underslung laser rifle. "An' the impulse buys weren' bad either." With a spiteful glance to one side, he added, "Though some of us didn'a cash in on th' bargins."

Monkey Fist cracked an eye to glare at the golfer. A ring of shattered stone encircled his Lotus position, the larger pieces of which bore fragments of solemn simian expressions. At his feet sat a red leather-bound tome, opened to a page depicting a shrieking, ghostly monkey. An amulet of jade dangled from his grasp by a thin black cord. "Put your faith in guns, Scotsman," he said. "One day you'll lose your leg to one of those plebian pea shooters." His face relaxed, and he resumed his meditation. "I prefer to place my fate on a higher path."

"You do that', Flea Picker," retorted Killigan. "A' least my way doesn'a involve flingin' my—"

A roar of enraged pain erupted in the hall outside the sanctum, freezing everyone save Drakken in their tracks. Shego stalked into the room a second later, wearing a strip of athletic tape across her reddened nose. Unbridled fury burned in her eyes, and in her hands; wisps of green trailed from her fists in her beeline toward the unconcerned Drakken.

Killigan snickered as she passed him. "Lookin' good, lass," he taunted. He never saw the fist that laid him out, and felt only the jarring burst in his chin before the black came to claim him.

"Drakken," she bellowed. It took her several more strides to choke down enough of her anger before she could speak again, by which time she had reached the Entropy Cannon. Shaking with fury, Shego growled, "You and I need to talk."

He still hadn't turned around. The crackle of his torch and the jauntiness of his tune maintained an even keel. "Bit busy, Shego," he hummed. "Be with you in a few—yow!" Shego's fingers crushed his earlobe and yanked back, taking his head and body with it in succession. She dragged him from the sanctum, played on by the snickers of their fellow villains and henchmen.

Out in the hall, Shego slammed him up against the wall and pinned him with a single arm. A steady space of two inches separated his dangling toes from the floor while she drew the blue pistol from her belt. "You think this is funny?" she hissed.

Drakken choked out, "Not as such, no."

The points of the pronged gun dug into his throat, puckering soft blue flesh with sharpened tips. "This piece of shit might not do much," she said, "But I bet it won't be any good for your throat when I feet it to you through your neck."

"I take it you hit Kim Possible with the ray, then."

"Oh, I hit her," growled Shego. Thin rivulets of red trickled out beneath the points. "Her dopey sidekick, too."

"Marvelous," he gagged.

"Mar—**Marvelous?** Your stupid flashlight did jack to her!" Shego thrust her face into his. Her ruby red nose throbbed before his eyes. "I ought'a kill you."

Drakken gurgled a smile. "You aren't angry at me," he told her.

Shego's eyebrows shot up. She drew back and slammed her forehead into his nose. The blow wasn't hard enough to break it, but only just.

Drakken's vision swam with pain. He tried to cry out, but her thumb crushed the yelp before it reached his mouth. "All right, you are angry at me," he amended, blinking hard while his nose dribbled blood. "But you're angrier at yourself."

The words surprised Shego, and intrigued her enough to lessen the pressure on his windpipe. "Is that a fact? How come, Smart Guy?"

"You're angry at yourself because you're happy the ray didn't kill Kim Possible," he told her. "And you're happy because you won't stand for anyone or anything but your own hands to crush the life out of her."

A swarm of thoughts buzzed behind Shego's eyes. After a moment's consideration, she let him drop to the floor, where he gasped and rubbed at his injured nose. "Okay," she admitted, "You might have a point. But there's still the matter of you lying to me."

Drakken sneezed a cloud of red. "I never lied to you," he said hoarsely.

"Bullshit. You said your little ray doodle would frag the Princess." She tossed the device his way. "Well, she's decidedly unfragged, and I've got the nose to prove it."

His panicked fumble caught the gun in mid-flight and clutched it to his chest. "I didn't say it would 'frag' he," he retorted. "I said Kim Possible would fall if you hit her with it." A panel on the gun's handle flipped open at his thumb's insistence, flashing an incomprehensible readout at him. Delight replaced his pained expression as he shut the panel. "And she will," he said, "Provided you got the other things I requested."

"Most of it's in the car," she said through soured lips. "I had the henchmen keep it separate to hide it from Bitchy McScotterson and the zoo refugee. But the extra-special stuff I kept on me." She reached into her jumpsuit's pockets and produced three items: two tiny, burnt-out, circular chips, each with miniscule legs designed to dig into flesh and latch on; and a small, silvery vial, sealed off and labeled with three numbers that didn't mean anything to Shego.

Drakken squealed and snatched the chips from her hand. "The Moodulators!" he cheered.

"Yeah, about that," said Shego. "If one of those is supposed to go on me, we're going to have words." Her empty hand lit, flickering with threat. "Angry, hurtful words."

"In just a short while, you'll be begging me for one of these beauties," countered Drakken, as he gazed lovingly at his new acquisitions.

She wrenched at clumps of her disheveled hair. "Stop speaking in riddles!"

An enigmatic smile of Drakken's calmed her down. "You'll no doubt recall my brain-switching technology," he began.

Shego rolled her eyes. "Vividly and painfully," she grumbled.

"Say hello to the next generation," he announced, and lofted his gun with pride. "This, dear Shego, is no ordinary gun. I call it 'The Mind Reader,' and if your aim was good, I'm now holding every memory or impulse Kim Possible ever had."

She stared at the gun with incredulous eyes, recalling the blue energy that had swept over Kim's body, seemingly without effect. "You photocopied Possible's _mind_? Do you have to work at being this crazy?"

"Think about it," he insisted. "Imagine fighting someone whose every memory you possess. All of their experience, all of their ability, their fighting style, coursing through your mind and body." Clumsy jabs flew in his fists to illustrate his point.

The meaning behind Drakken's words dawned on Shego. Tension drained from her face, leaving black shock in its stead. "You'd know what they were going to throw before they threw it. You could guess their every move." Her eyes flew to the gun with new reverence, and then to Drakken's face with question. "But how…"

His palm rattled. "Oh," sang Drakken, "If only we had some kind of technology that could interface directly with the human brain." He gave the Moodulators a little toss. "Something designed to download and manipulate impulses, making decisions like that on the unconscious level." A dark sneer cracked his face. "So who's crazy now, Shego?"

Surprise stole Shego's voice, allowing Drakken a long moment in which to enjoy his triumph uninterrupted. At last, she murmured, "No mood swings."

"None whatsoever," he reassured her.

"I'll know what moves Possible will use?"

He smiled knowingly. "Before even she does."

Stillness struck her once more, this time a pensive one. "Hook me up," she announced.

Drakken barked a laugh and yanked the chips away from her eager grasp. "Patience, Shego," he chided her. "They'll be ready soon enough. In the meantime, I suggest you catch some rest. Things are about to heat up around here."

Grumbling rumbled at Shego's lips while Drakken spun on his heel and skipped back into the sanctum. When she clenched her fists in anger, pressure in her palm reminded her of the sealed silver vial, the other half of Drakken's list-toppers. "Hey, Doc, wait up," she called, waving the vial. "You forgot your…thing." Shego gave the vial and its enigmatic label another look, and muttered to herself, "Just what the hell is this 'Nine-Zero-One' stuff anyway?"

* * *

The clink of crystal and murmured conversations competed without earnestness against a soft serenade by the stringed quartet in the background of the Fancy Truffle. Whispers of gourmet cooking floated through the air, tantalizing the taste buds those whose food had not yet been crafted with delicate care. Black ties and evening gowns ruled the majority, leaving the handsome young man seated across from an anxious redhead to tug at his empty collar and fight his feelings of misplacement. "The, uh…the food here is spectacular," he said, fighting the uneasy quiet of their table. 

Kim pulled her scowl from her plate, softening her eyes a touch as they fell onto his nervous grin. Guilt pulled her face into a similar expression. She pulled herself up in her chair and once more forced her furtive gaze from the door, which (she had long since figured out) Ron and Monique would not be walking through that night. "Mm-hmm," she hummed around a mouthful of steak. Tender, succulent meat slid down her throat to rest in the churning lump her stomach had become, and she said, "The Truffle's famous for its food."

"And the view, I'd guess," Josh noted. He gazed out the windows to the distant city below, watching it crawl around them as the restaurant turned.

When the silence returned again, Kim was aware enough to take notice of it this time. Her guilt compounded, but it could not smother the horrendous theories regarding her friends' outing. "I'm really sorry, Josh," she said. "I'm rotten company right now, I know."

His head swiveled back so fast that Kim could hear the bones in his neck popping. "Wha—no! No, not at all. No, it's just…well, you seem a little distracted tonight, is all." Crestfallen, he admitted, "I hope tonight wasn't a bad night to do this."

Her guilt gorged itself on his miserable expression and grew, unchecked. "It's not your fault," she said. "A lot of stuff's come up in the last couple days." Visions of Ron and Monique sharing a moonlit kiss on a paddleboat on placid waters rushed in unbidden. "Mission stuff," she added.

Josh's expression became nervous, and otherwise unreadable. He leaned back from his picked-over food and said, "I bet that kind of stuff comes up a lot."

The Monique of Kim's mind leaned close to Ron inside a fancied movie theater, nibbling at his earlobe under cover of darkness. "Not this fast," she lamented.

He cleared his throat. "I…" Hesitation ate his thoughts, leaving him hushed. "This mission stuff…It's pretty intense, huh."

"Well, it's no walk in the park," she sighed.

That same look lingered in his face through a second hesitation. He looked down as though he were ashamed. "Guess it's always been that way for you. Even back in high school." At her preoccupied nod, he said, "I didn't get that. Back in high school."

Kim shrugged, wrestling with the vivid image of supple black legs straddling a pale, ivory stomach with whispered promises of gentility. "No big," she said. "It's in the past."

"It's a big to me," Josh insisted. "It's the reason I…well, I've always felt bad about it." Red touched his cheeks, and he stared down into his pasta. "It must be lonely, living like that. Always caught between worlds."

The daydreams vanished in a puff of surprise. "I…huh." Kim's thoughts spun back, recalling a lifetime's emotions in an instant. Every moment in her past threatened by distance and emptiness had a freckled grin to fill its void. "I've never felt lonely," she decided aloud. "I don't think so, anyway. I mean, I've always had Ron."

Confidence receded from his face. "What's—if you don't mind me asking, of course, but what's the deal between you and Ron?"

"The deal?" repeated Kim.

Nervous, Josh's eyes took sudden and utter interest in the napkin on his lap, while he said, "It's just that I…well, you live together, you work together…"

Kim pondered the question, and felt saddened when she couldn't come up with an answer. 'Best friends' no longer fit the bill; friends didn't laugh like they laughed, touch like they touched, or felt what they feel. 'Lovers' was certainly a stretch; lovers spent their time gazing deeply into one another's eyes, not hanging out at a Bueno Nacho to laugh about the action flick they had just seen. She felt good when he was there, and felt in pieces when they were at odds…like now.

"At the moment, I don't think we're much of anything," she said, and sighed.

* * *

A laughing couple stumbled up to the front of a shoddily-kept apartment building well after midnight, making no effort to quell their boisterous joy. Sweat plastered hair to their foreheads as, arm in arm, they skipped up the short cement landing to the building's front doors. 

Ron's red jersey heaved as he gasped for breath, reddening, grinning uncontrollably at the sprightly grace and beauty leaned in his arm. "Mon," he gasped, "That was awesome!"

Her dazzling smile leapt out at him on the unlit landing. Monique's chest heaved like his own, in a lime green tank top stretched tight to accommodate distractions Ron found hard to keep his eyes away from. "I know," she said between breaths. "That's my favorite club in the area. No cover, good crowd…too bad I'll never be able to go back there."

"Oh! Oh! When we were dancing…" recounted Ron.

"—which you do rather well," said Monique, bumping her hips against his.

Ron continued, still breathless, "—and that guy came up behind you, and started grinding with you…"

Her face twisted at the memory. "Whispered some nasty stuff in my ear, let me tell you."

"—and then his girlfriend came over and started bitching you out—"

"—and her boyfriend was all like, 'What?' like he didn't do anything," added Monique, caught up in his excitement.

"—and then she takes a swing at you, all set to start a catfight, and you totally lay her out!" He reenacted her punch, plowing his knuckles through an imagined girl's face.

Monique nodded. "And then the beau tries steppin' up, and you totally karate-busted his ass through a table!" She thrust her leg into the air, crushing an imagined guy's stomach.

Ron collapsed against the door with laughter. "I don't think I've ever run so hard," he said, and clutched his splitting sides.

"I know," she snickered back. "They'll probably keep our picture behind the bar so we can't sneak back in." Her chortling grew while Ron's died down. He examined her with blossoming curiosity, so intently so that she sobered and stilled, and challenged his stare with a, "What? Do I have something in my teeth?"

Ron continued to stare, moving up and down her borrowed clothes that ill-befit such bountiful curves, and across the moonlit gleam painting her soft skin a milky blue. Cotton scraped wood as he stood from the door to gaze down at her, and he said, "Why'd you do it, Mon?"

Her brows quirked. "Not gonna stand by while some five-cent bimbo gets up in my face, am I?"

"No," he said with a chuckle, "Not that. Why this? I think I would've remembered us planning a date. So…why? Kim wanted to talk, which is what I thought you said—"

Sisterly softness swept across Monique's face. "You remember how you were all angry today?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Yeah."

"You angry anymore?"

His eyes rolled back in thought. "Not so much," he admitted.

Monique reached up and patted him on the cheek. "You're welcome," she said.

"Thanks," he said, embarrassed. But his scrutiny remained, causing her confusion, until he blurted out, "Y'know what? Forget Kim. Let's hook up."

Disbelief tore at her expression. "Say what?"

"C'mon," he continued doggedly, "Let's do it. You and me. Look at how much fun we had tonight. Look at how great we go together." He juggled his points back and forth, offering both sides up in open palms: "You're funny; I'm funny. You like to party; I like to party. You're incredibly hot; I'm…not unbearable to look at. What do you say?"

The initial shock took its sweet time leaving Monique's face to make way for a more thoughtful expression. She cut the space between them into nothing with a quick step forward, sliding her hands onto his shoulders. "I say," she murmured, with half-lidded eyes, "That's a great idea. Forget Kim."

Excitement thundered in his chest at her touch. "Yeah," he agreed with shaky enthusiasm.

"Who needs her?" Monique drew closer still, rising up on the tips of her toes. Her hand slid behind Ron's head to play with his hair.

Ron trembled as he felt her body slide up against his. Her breasts heaved into him, and hot breath rolled across his chin. "Not me," he said.

Her finger traced his collarbone with a teasing touch that worsened his trembling. "What would you say," she asked with lips a hair's breadth from his, "If I invited you upstairs for coffee?"

"I, um…I don't usually drink coffee this late," he stammered.

"Me neither," she admitted in a whisper. "I had something else hot and steamy in mind."

A kiss crashed into Ron's mouth before he could affect a protest of any kind. Her lips felt softer than anything he had ever encountered, and had a taste unlike any other. He closed his eyes and started kissing back at once. His hands wrapped around her bare midriff, and slowly worked their way up the sides of her green tank top to the smooth, sculpted skin of her neck. A gasp escaped their embrace when his thumb brushed her ivory cheek. Scarlet hair poured through his fingers. As Ron's breath ran short, he felt her pull back, and he opened his eyes to meet her green gaze.

Monique smiled at his surprise with knowing patience. Her hand came to rest on his face. "Now," she asked him, "Who were just you kissing?" Ron's mouth flapped, until she shut it with a finger. "Shh. Don't. You're hurt. You're confused. But there are two very good reasons you and I can't be. First, I'm way too good for you, and I'll break your heart like an egg." Her smirk came and left. "And more importantly, I happen to have it on good authority—mine—that Kim loves you as much as you love her." When he tried to speak again, she shook her head and insisted, "No argument. Kim needs to talk to you. You aren't mad anymore, so now you need to talk to Kim. You savvy?" Monique didn't give him the chance to answer; she patted his cheek, and said, "G'night, Champ. Thanks for a great evening."

She turned to go inside. Her key had just worked the lock open when she heard Ron say behind her, "You're right. Kim will love me, Mon. When she's older, and she's tired of guys prettier and better than me of leaving her in the lurch. When she's tired of the chase. That's when she'll go back to ol', dependable Ron. And that's what kills me; that I'm her second choice."

Monique turned around. Ron was trudging down the steps with his hands stuffed into his pockets. A cloud of despair followed him on high, making her wonder if she hadn't made things worse. "You can't believe that," she said.

Ron kept walking. "Not everyone grows up to be a swan," he called without turning. "Some of us are just ugly ducks."

She watched him disappear onto the street, back toward campus and home. The dark city swallowed him without difficulty; she doubted he would have fought it, even if he could have. With a shake of her head, Monique wondered aloud, "Why are the cute ones always so dumb?"

* * *

"So…" 

"So…"

Josh and Kim fidgeted at the door of her building. He stood at a respectful distance, with 'awkward' written into every detail of his person as he searched for something to say that would make the moment last. The jangle of Kim's keys distracted him from producing anything but feeble stammers. "Here we are," he noted with a low chuckle.

The nod Kim gave came purely on reflex. Her thoughts were seated in a third row pew at the First Church of Middleton, where Ron and Monique were undoubtedly finishing their vows and moving on to their unity candle. It took every ounce of restraint she had to not bolt up the steps and see whether or not Ron had gotten back yet. "Mm-hmm," she hummed.

That same hesitation that had haunted Josh all night revisited him now. The words he wanted waited on speechless lips, parting his mouth in a trio of false starts. At last, he gestured to Kim, and asked, "Was tonight…okay?"

"Hmm? Yeah," she said, looking back at him. "Tonight was great."

He smiled, relieved. "Good. Because…Because I've thought about it, and I might…I might be moving back to the Tri-City area. It'd be nice to know I'd have a friendly face to see…y'know, when you aren't busy with missions."

Kim flashed an empty smile at the freckled blond bringing her home. Then she did a double-take, watching Josh's frosted locks sway in the breeze. Startled, she stammered, "That'd be great. I, uh, I'm pretty tired." Which was true, but Kim wouldn't even think of rest until she found Ron. Chucking her thumb over her shoulder, she said, "I'd better…"

"Oh. Of course." Josh backed away, making gracious gestures. He stumbled down the steps and mumbled his goodnight.

When she turned back to the door, she found that a terrible weight had infected her keys, making it impossible to lift them to the lock. Josh's absence made the prospect of finding Ron up in the apartment very real and very frightening. What mood would she find him in? Would he be alone?

"What's wrong with you," Kim muttered to herself, clasping her keys. She recalled her mother's simple words, and wished desperately to make them happen. Ron hadn't been receptive to her overtures, and rightfully so. But then, how was she supposed to make things right?

Or maybe she wasn't meant to. The sultry satisfaction oozing on Monique's face resurfaced from Kim's memory. With it came the way Ron had trembled at Monique's touch. These days, Kim could hardly touch Ron at all. His uneasiness and silent treatment when she had fixed his tie…What did they even have anymore?

'It's fair, isn't it?' a little creep of a voice whispered to Kim. 'You get to date Josh, and he gets Monique.'

Her temper flared. "It's not—"

A hand at her shoulder turned her from the door. "I saw that you were hanging back too," Josh said with an odd smile. She stood rooted to the spot as he leaned in and kissed her full on the mouth. When he pulled away, his smile doubled. "See you later," he promised, and skipped off before she could speak.

Kim toppled back against the door, watching Josh float down the street. His kiss still tingled on her lips, and spread through the rest of her horrified face. "Holy crap," she murmured, pressing her hand to her mouth. "It was a date."

**To Be Continued**


	8. Revelations

_All-Purpose Disclaimer_

In every generation, there is a chosen one. She alone will stand against the lawyers seeking to protect fair use material, the copyright infringement suits wrongly brought against fics written for no profit, and the vampires. She is Kim Possible.

* * *

_Ron juked back and felt her toes comb the bangs from his sweaty forehead. The training room mat squeaked beneath him as he sprang forward with a lunge punch that landed on her crossed forearms. The two combatants slid together across the floor with the force of the blow, eliciting a long squeal from the vinyl flooring. "Too slow, Kimberly Anne," he sang. His fists began pumping in a merciless barrage, testing the very limit of her defenses._

_Sweat beaded at Kim's forehead while she blocked each individual blow with lightning speed and waning strength. She didn't have Ron's upper body power, and they both knew it. Likely, he was wearing her out to dull her superior speed, one of the few edges she still held on him in a fight. "Sorry," she replied pleasantly, ducking a roundhouse swing that parted the tip of her hair. "You looked a little winded, so I thought I'd slow it down."_

_Excited whooping came from the edge of the U's training room, where the other who students had come to work out their pre-final frustrations had yielded the floor to Team Possible's weekly smackdown. Some of the room's regulars knew to show up on Saturday afternoons for the best free show on campus. They were the loudest, egging Kim or Ron on by name._

_"You're too kind," said Ron. He bowed generously to avoid a hook kick and corkscrew-flipped back, enjoying the cheer it drew from the crowd._

_Kim flipped after him, pounding the floor that he rolled away from in a double-stomp. "Showoff," she teased, tossing her hair back._

_He grinned and waggled his fingers for her to advance. "That's a lovely shade of black you're wearing, Miss Pot."_

_But his humor turned to yelping; Kim feinted high and swept his feet out from under him. Breath whistled from his lips when he slammed to the ground like so many sacked potatoes, and then again as Kim drove her knee into his back. Her fingers clamped around his arm and pulled it up behind him while he was stunned._

_"Settle, Kettle," she said, tugging up on his arm. "This is one Saturday you won't come out on top."_

_"Was that a double entendre?" grunted Ron._

_Another tug cut short his mockery. "You wish," Kim said. "Now tap out." She pressed her knee harder into his kidney. Subtle worry worked her smile down; if Ron tried to break her hold, he might hurt himself, or her. "C'mon, Ron," she urged, "There's no way you can—"_

_Ron arched his back hard. The vertebra beneath Kim crackled as his heels arced up behind her and hooked around her shoulders. She couldn't resist as his powerful legs yanked her down, back, and threw her off of Ron._

_He rolled his chest off the floor and pulled his feet beneath him to flip back just as she hit the ground. Kim had touched down but an instant when he crouched over her with a tiger grip pressed gently to her throat._

_"Tap out," he said with friendly forcefulness._

_Kim swore and swatted the mat twice. Mild applause cluttered the air while Ron helped her back to her feet. The two combatants bowed, and then started for the edge of the mats. Their audience dispersed back throughout the room, sensing that the show was over, and left them to talk in relative privacy._

_"If I were a villain, I so would have had you back there," groused Kim as she undid her gi's waist ties. The heavy cotton cloth slid from her shoulders, revealing a black sports bra soaked with sweat that ballooned with her sigh. Then, muttering her best villainous voice, she hissed, "I should have finished you when I had the chance, Stoppable."_

_Ron traded his gi out for a rumbled tank top. "First off," he said, rolling his shoulders to work out the kinks, "You would make a lousy villain. You're way too hot, and you remember my name. And second, while impressive, your Kung Fu is no match for my mad monkey skillz." _

_He struck a pose, making her laugh with a ridiculous face. "Humble up, Ron," she said, and ruffled his golden crown. "I wouldn't want to have to regret your 'mad skillz' if they turned you into a colossal jerk, just like all the other times."_

_"Like when?" he asked with a faux pout._

_Her fingers ticked: "Your new haircut phase, your multi-millionaire phase, your O-Boy phase, your extreme sports phase…"_

_"Well," he said with a shrug, "At least you don't have to save me during every mission…as much."_

_Now it was her turn to faux-pout. "Maybe I like saving you," she caramelized. Dropping the act, she added, "After all, I did it so much in High School, I could have lettered in Ron-Saving." She pulled out a black T and slipped it over her head, popping out of the collar with a smile._

_"True," agreed Ron. "But letter jackets are so tacky for ultra-adult collegiates like ourselves." He produced a ratty red jersey from his bag and donned it, losing his head somewhere in the sleeve on the first attempt. Her giggle guided his head back through the proper hole, where he met her smile with one of his own. "But maybe you wouldn't mind saving me from other, non-mortal peril…"_

_Guessing the root of his troubles wasn't hard, as he had been fretting about it all week. "Lit Class?" she asked._

_He nodded, and gathered up his bag. When Kim tried lifting hers, he took it from her and carried it as well. "Turns out that my 'Old Man and the Sea' paper isn't going as swimmingly as I'd hoped." With a conspiratorial look, he whispered, "Did you know that it's supposed to be some big Jesus metaphor?"_

_Kim grinned, and let him carry the bag without argument. She knew he was just buttering her up, and she loved every minute of it. Next he would offer her food, which she could definitely go for after their weekly tussle. "I remember something like that from those lectures you sleep through," she said._

_"Yeah," he grunted without apology. "My old Synagogue? Yeah, they didn't go over the Jesus stuff as well as I might've needed for this assignment. Think you could help me out before our Saturday Night Movie-thon? There's Bueno Nacho in it if you say yes."  
_

_Her grin grew, and she wrapped her arm around his waist, leading him toward the door. "It's a deal," she said._

_Kim's eyes remained on Ron a moment, slowing their progress toward the exit. He felt warm against her arm through the thin jersey. Strong, too. But his face retained a boyish kindness she knew better than her own countenance. After all they had been through, his smile hadn't changed._

_The scrutiny didn't go unnoticed. "What?" asked Ron. "Do I have schmutz on my face?"_

_Wishing idly for the power to freeze this one, blissful moment, Kim squeezed him closer and assured him, "Absolutely nothing is wrong. Everything is just right."_

* * *

**Kim Possible  
The Power of Friendship**

_by Cyberwraith9_

* * *

"I'm coming! I'm coming!"

The incessant pounding that had rousted Monique from her slumber now guided her bleary-eyed steps toward the front door. Whatever it was that desired entrance to her apartment, it bowed the wood inward with the force of its need. Monique would have feared for her safety, were she not one hundred percent certain who it was calling at this late (or rather, early) hour.

Her hand found the cool knob by memory. She stepped back and yanked the door open, watching with satisfaction as Kim stumbled into the apartment.

Kim righted herself in an instant. Her white T-shirt bore dark circles of sweat, and her breath came at a fast, shallow pace. "Where is he?" she asked. "Where's Ron?"

"G'morning to you too, Sunshine," yawned Monique.

"Where is he?" demanded Kim. "I need to talk to him."

Monique shut the door and turned on the lights. Her eyes shrank from the illumination, coming to grips with it slowly, so she took care as she stumbled her way over to a couch and its inviting blanket. "S'not here," she mumbled.

Kim's hand caught hold of her wrist, jerking her to a stop. "How could you do this to me?"" she cracked. "I thought you were my friend. You know how I feel about him—"

A flash of Ron's face barreled into Monique's memory, pulled fresh from their goodnight. It chased the sleep from her mind and tracked rage in its wake. Monique's vision flashed red, and the next thing she knew, Kim was clutching her cheek in shock, and her palm smarted with the sting of a fresh slap. "You stupid bitch," she heard her voice utter.

A tear trailed from the edge of Kim's narrowing eyes. She locked her arms out straight to keep her trembling fists at bay. "If you were anyone else…" she said in a low, quaking tone.

"What? You'd hit me? Use your Kung Fu grip on me? Go ahead," taunted Monique. "Thrash me. It'll be nothing compared to what you're doing to Ron, you selfish, hateful little coward." She shoved Kim hard, knocking the redhead back a step.

It took visible effort for Kim to hold herself back. "Coward?" she uttered. Angered tears spilled from her eyes faster than her longing fists could clear them away. "How dare you call me—"

"Coward," Monique repeated. "And you're stupid. God, you are so, so stupid!" She shoved Kim again, still unopposed, and shouted, "You are such an idiot! You don't have a clue! And I am so jealous!"

Kim' expression broke with shock. She whispered, "What?"

"You have someone so special," shot Monique. "He would reach up and grab the moon, just so he could give it to you. And what do you do? You tease him." The shocked and crying Kim in front of Monique blurred, and a wet heat spilled across her cheeks. She didn't care. "You string him along," she shouted, "And then you dump his ass the second some piece of eye candy wanders back."

"I DON'T want JOSH!" Kim bellowed. She stumbled back and fell against the kitchen counter. Her voice faltered, "I just…he comes back, and he points that stupid, wonderful picture of me, and my stomach does flip-flops, and I totally blew it with Ron, and he won't talk to me, and you won't talk to me, and you both treat me like I'm some kind of super villain, and I don't know what I'm supposed to do!" Her words broke into a sob, and her tears flooded her face. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do," she whimpered.

Monique watched her blubber in silence for a moment. The bravest, strongest girl she had ever known dissolved into a sopping wet ball of moaning, with stifling sobs that showed no sign of abating. Taking pity on her, Monique circled the counter in her kitchenette, and came back with a roll of paper towels. "Here," she said, and dropped the roll into Kim's soppy, grateful hands. As Kim cleared her face, Monique said, "Why did you go out with Josh? I can buy that you were caught off-guard by Ron, but I can't figure out—"

"I don't know," Kim moaned into the rough paper. Her tears had stemmed when she pulled her puffy face back up, but her green eyes still swam in sadness. "I didn't want to. I was tired, and confused, and then Ron said I couldn't go, which made me really mad…and then, when I told him we could stay, he…he told me to go…"

The memory of Kim's pre-date pleas cracked Monique's anger with a well-deserved helping of guilt, if only for a moment. "Yeah, well…He was really hurt, you know."

She nodded. "I know," Kim said in a small voice. "I just…I wanted everything between Ron and me to be perfect before we took that step. We…I wasn't ready. And when I came home, I guess…"

"You want to know what I think?" asked Monique with soft words. At Kim's expectant look, she said, "I think you let yourself get caught up in this little after crush you have on Josh because you're afraid of what Ron can do to you."

"I…I don't—"

Monique shushed her. "With Josh," she explained, "You get to have your little fun, teasing and flirting, and when you go your separate ways, no one feels bad." Kim's features fell, but Monique pressed on. "But Ron? Oh, he's in too deep." She took one of the paper towels from the roll in Kim's hand and wadded it up. Then she floated it in front of Kim's reddened nose. "Just one little look from Ron can send you to Cloud Nine…but the wrong look…" She tore the paper sheet apart slowly, letting the pieces fall pointedly into Kim's cupped hands. "He can hurt you in all the worst ways without even trying. And that scares you…doesn't it?" Kim nodded, and so Monique said, "Good. Because it should. But not like this."

Trembling, Kim clutched the paper pieces, watching them darken with the salty sorrow all over her hands. "What am I supposed to do if he leaves?" she whispered to the pieces. "There are a thousand ways it could end badly, and I don't see our friendship making it through any of them." Looking up, she pleaded, "Please, Monique…tell me; what do I do?"

Monique shook her head. "You've already got your answer. Hell," she laughed, "You've got all the answers. You're just too scared to ask the right question."

"Then what's the right question?" asked a shrill Kim.

With quiet purpose, Monique went to the door and held it open for Kim. "I guess you have some thinking to do." Kim gave her a heartbreaking look that went unanswered, and then shuffled out into the hall. As Kim turned her back, Monique added in a gravelly voice, "Don't come back here, Kim. I'm done being your go-between."

The door shut with a resolute click, leaving Kim alone and adrift.

* * *

Anger. Jealousy. Despair. Emotions pumped through Ron, mimicking his blood with ghostly mass. Fear. Confusion. Outrage. They robbed him of the sleep his body and mind craved with desperate need. Heartache. Desire. Rejection. He ignored the giant, singular ache his body had become, and continued to push up from the floor and lower himself back down, as he vowed to do until he had burned the offensive emotions out of his body.

Sweat rolled off his nose in fat, heavy drops as he kept count with a breathless whisper. He knew his body had nothing left to give, but he couldn't bear to stop, for fear that everything would catch up with him at once. Even now, he slowed against his will, and faint wisps of his thoughts broke through his focus.

'Love is supposed to be wonderful,' his mind told him. 'Love doesn't jerk you around like this.'

Ron scowled, and tried to speed back up. His arms just didn't have it in them. "I know," he growled.

'You've been wrong before,' the treacherous gray matter reminded him. 'What if you misread her all this time? What if it's always been Josh?'

"Shut up," he snapped.

'Face it, Hondo. You're second rate. You've always been second rate to them. To her. Why can't you grasp that simple concept?'

"That's enough outta you," Ron said, and let himself drop to the floor. His forehead struck the ground, drowning out the voice with a welcome rush of pain.

A gentle knock pulled Ron from his losing argument with himself. Ron rose and stumbled to the door, hastily wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He tugged his tank top back into order, and then opened the door. It didn't occur to him to wonder why anyone would call on their apartment at this early hour until Josh Mankey's uncertain features revealed themselves in the hall. "You?"

Josh wore a rumpled ghost of the same sporty outfit he had picked Kim up in, as well as a look that suggested he had eaten month-old takeout (a pain Ron knew firsthand). "I know, I know," Josh said apologetically, "It's totally late, and there's no good reason for me to be here, but I saw the light on, and I was hoping Kim was still up." He craned his neck, looking into the apartment. "Is she asleep?"

Ron forced his hands open, lest his fists express the very emotions he worked to burn off. "She isn't here," he told her suitor. A whisper of worry rose up at the realization that Kim wasn't with Josh, but he squashed that with an inward snort; Kim could take care of the both of them in the middle of a battlefield, much less herself on a warm summer night. "Okay, thanks for stopping by," said Ron, and threw the door closed.

The door bounced off of Josh's foot as Ron strode back into the apartment. "Wait. Ron, as long as I've got you alone, I wanted to ask you something."

Resentment swelled in Ron's neck, choking down a caustic response of his. He drew a long, deep breath, and brought forth a mental image of Kim before he continued, "I'm flattered, but I don't swing that way."

Josh leaned against the back of the futon as Ron threw himself to the ground and began his exercise anew. "Not that you aren't man-pretty, but no, that wasn't it," he admitted with anxious humor. "You see…" He trailed off, hopping to gain some of Ron's attention. That hope withered in Ron's oblivious push-ups. "I'm thinking of moving back to Middleton," said Josh, forging on with sickly courage. "And I…This is going to sound dumb, but I feel like I need your blessing…"

At this, Ron froze, and stared at the floor.

"—seeing as how you're Kim's best friend, I wanted to make sure you'd be cool with me asking Kim—"

The lamentable camel bearing Ron's grief bleated and fell as this weighty straw sundered its back. Its burden spilled into Ron's body, flooding him with a thousand new emotions, none of which he could cope with. The world spun, squeezing his stomach with nausea. Desperate, he dealt with the feelings the only way he knew how: by twisting them all into anger.

Josh took a step back when Ron rose up to his feet with a single push. Deep, bitter wells glistened where his eyes had been, and spilled their anguish into his mouth; "You have to be kidding me," Ron growled. His eyes were unfocused and wild, making Josh doubt if he spoke to his guest, or to an unseen someone else. "You come drifting in out of Artsy-Land, you're here for one day—"

"Ron, I know what you're thinking," Josh pleaded with proffered hands. "But high school was a long time ago. I did something stupid, because I was…afraid," he admitted, ashamed. "But I've had two years to regret it all." Slow, almost fearful steps carried him toward his fuming host. "Please. Do you have any idea what it's like when you blow your only chance with someone? When you can't stop thinking about—"

"No."

With a wistful sigh, Josh said, "It's wonderful, and its awful, all at the same time. She's in my head when I wake up, and she's there in my drea—"

Ron shook his head. "No," he repeated forcefully. "You can't have my blessing. In fact, whatever the opposite of a blessing is…curse. I curse you. I curse you, and I curse your crushy-lovey crush on Kim!" Josh's jaw dropped in shock, fueling Ron's words. "God, you're all alike, aren't you? You stupid, pretty, talented, charming shits all come in, and you spin her around until she can't tell up from down. Until she can't see…"

The air between them froze. Ron trembled, unable to speak, not daring to believe that he had actually blurted out those thoughts to his worst enemy. He watched, helpless, as Josh's horror-struck features reunited into a calm, unreadable expression. The young suitor seemed to grow eight feet in Ron's fearful eyes as he said, "So. I was right. About you, anyway."

"Y…You're an idiot," Ron bellowed uncertainly. "You had her, and you gave her up. Do you know what I'd give to have what you had? What you _have_? She sees you!" He threw his hands up, ignoring the breakage in his tone. "She looks at you, and she sees you." His vision wobbled. Ron turned away in haste, and buried his chin in his chest. "Blessing?" he hissed through clenched teeth. "Man, you're already blessed."

Josh stepped forward. "You're the idiot, Ron," he said with cold anger. "She didn't see you? Well, I did. Me, and at least a dozen other guys in school. We saw the way she laughed with you, the way she talked to you. We all saw the way she looked at you, and we knew we could never compete with that." He stopped short and looked at Ron with disgust. "She didn't see you? You were everywhere! You're a part of her life, permanent. So how the hell is any other guy supposed to compete with that?"

Ron swallowed the lump in his throat and prayed that his voice remained steady. "Get out of my home," he whispered, "And take your corny bullshit with you."

"Fine." Crisp footfalls beat into Ron's ears. He kept his eyes glued to the carpet as the door clicked open. "You know what, Ron?" Josh called from the doorway. "You had fifteen years to make a move. It's not my fault if some of us move a little quicker."

His anger burned the wet tremor from his voice as Ron turned, and said, "You want a fight, pretty boy? You've got one."

"And may the best man win," shot Josh. He swept out of the room and slammed the door behind him.

Ron stared at the door with mute fury. His own hollow boasts of fighting for Kim rang in his ears. They taunted him, singing over and over how he could fight, and fight, and fight, and never see a single inch of gained ground. 'Nice guys never finish,' the reminded him. 'Nice guys—'

A roar split the air and spun the room around him. Ron's heel plowed through the back of the futon couch, splitting its wooden frame in half with a terrific explosion of splinters. He thrust his fist into the shattered frame, tearing struts apart like toothpicks. Incoherent yells erupted with every blow, sometimes resembling words, other times, names. Shards of wood leapt up from his efforts and stuck to his freckles, pasted there by angry tears.

Rufus popped his pink head from a bowl on the counter. He blinked the sleep out of his dark eyes and gasped at the ball of rage his friend had become. He leapt from the counter with a terrified squeal, and bounded across the floor and up Ron's leg. "Stop!" pleaded the mole rat, as he tugged on Ron's cheek. "Stop!"

The squeaky pleas reached Ron, and he calmed into a collapsed heap in a pile of kindling and mangled mattress. Deep breaths heaved in and out of his chest, nearly unseating Rufus from his shoulder. Ron gazed upon his handiwork with dispassionate surprise, as though he had just discovered the dismembered futon. "Wow," he muttered.

Tender claws swiped the splintery tears from his cheeks. "Feel better?" chattered Rufus.

Ron swiped his face dry with the back of his hand. A sardonic chuckle slipped through his lips. "Not really," he admitted. "Still don't have a girlfriend, and now I don't have a couch, either." He knelt before the kindling and felt another laugh leave his chest, followed by another. "Guess I sort of lost it, huh?" he said, laughing.

Rufus hugged his cheek, tickling Ron with the tips of his whiskers. A deep, forlorn moan accompanied the gesture. "Sorry," he whispered.

"No buddy," said Ron, hugging Rufus back, "I'm sorry." The haunting laughter refused to subside, frightening the both of them. "This whole mess has me so turned around…I mean, look at this." He chortled, feeling fresh tears kiss his cheek. This time he let them come without a fight. "This isn't me. Trying to get KP to notice me, like some stupid puppy? Fighting her old-new boyfriend? And now I'm taking it out on my furniture."

"S'okay," murmured Rufus.

He sniffled and shook his head. "No, it isn't," he said, and pushed back onto his feet. "This isn't me." The laughter grew soft as a new thought entered his mind, refusing to leave through any means but his mouth; "And this isn't working. This…We can't keep going like this. Maybe…Maybe Josh is right. I had my chance. Had my moment in the sun…and now it's time to move on."

His face sobered at the thought, though the occasional chuckle still broke through. He couldn't make Kim feel that way about him, no matter how much he wanted her to. And he could easily have been misreading her all this time. Yes, that was it. How could it be anything but? She had done everything except reject him flat-out, and that couldn't be far off. 'Better to duck out of the race entirely, before you crash and burn,' that traitorous voice in his head told him.

"Yeah," he murmured, half-convinced.

Another knock pulled him from the thought. The last of his sorrow smeared away on his knuckles as he stumbled for the door. "Okay, okay," he crabbed, reaching for the knob while he tried to sort his head out of the millions of thoughts zooming in and out of it. "I'm coming. You can yell at me some more about your new girlfriend in a second. What's the big—"

His voice trailed off as he opened the door. There, Josh struggled in the clutches of Ron's waking nightmare. The hall behind them teemed with hooting creatures clad all in black, masked, brandishing fearsome katanas proportioned for their tiny paws. They swarmed at the feet of their master, who wore a maddened glint in his eye at the sight of Ron.

"Hello, Stoppable," Monkey Fist said. A whimper escaped his hand clutched over Josh's mouth. "And how is my favorite phony today?" he asked, and punched Ron in the face.

* * *

The shuffle of her shoes made for poor company in the long hours since leaving Monique's apartment. Her cheek still retained the sting of her friend's slap, and her stomach still roiled with butterflies and guilt. She could hardly see her own feet through her exhaustion, staring down at the road as she chased down her own thoughts. They flitted past her, always out of reach, keeping her always on the move.

Kim's lips worked in silence, mouthing the half-formed musings her mind snatched from the air as they zipped past. Try though she might, she couldn't understand what Monique had tried to tell her; what is the question? What did she mean?

She touched her chest, pressing at the spot where the calming warmth had radiated from. "What I felt for Ron is real," she murmured. Then her hand traced down to her stomach, inciting riot among the butterflies. "What I felt for Josh is real." The butterflies agreed. "Which one do I choose? Is that it?"

Ron. Of course it would be Ron. But what good did knowing that do her? Look at them; one little spat, one slip on her part, and they couldn't talk to each other. She had to do something. But what? What should she do?

"What should I do?" That had to be it. Should she be with Ron, or shouldn't she. "That's the question." Fie on Monique and her double-speak. That had to be the question.

It occurred to Kim that she had no idea where she was, or what time it was. She looked up, and found an old friend standing at her side, much to her surprise. He loomed in the corner of an empty lot, right where he had been when she had met him. The lot itself had changed a great deal; the preschool she'd met him at had long since left, taking its playground equipment with it. But he hadn't left.

"I can't believe I walked all the way to Middleton," she muttered, approaching him with a sad smirk. "And I can't believe you're still here. I thought you would have left years ago. It's good to see you."

Her friend didn't answer. Kim walked up to him and ran a hand across his rough, tattered bark, and listened to the wind whisper through his leaves. She felt mud pulling at her feet, and glanced down at the dirt, spying a memory within it. She could almost hear that scruffy little boy defending her honor in the old oak's whispers. It stole the sad from her smile.

She leaned into her friend's trunk and wrapped her arms around him. "You caused me a lot of trouble, you know," she told him. "If you hadn't introduced us, I wouldn't be in this mess. So you'd better help me out now." Kim slid to the ground, ignoring the oak's sharp kiss. Its roots cradled her, easily bearing the weight of her tired troubles. She wouldn't need him to help her carry them for long. Just long enough to let her rest.

"Should I, or shouldn't I? Kim said aloud. She rolled the thought around in her mouth, considering the question rather than its answer. Even if she could answer it, she then didn't know what to do, and Monique had mocked the very notion of _that_ question.

"What d'ya mean?" a tiny voice cried out. Kim looked up from her seat in the roots and spied an indignant little girl bounding around the tree trunk. Scarlet pigtails bounced behind her ducky overalls, which were slick with mud. Her impish face scrunched angrily at Kim as she hollered, "You an' Ron hafta be together. You're meant to be!"

Kim regarded the little girl with mild curiosity. "Now where did you come from?" she asked.

Kimmie stamped her foot, kicking up a clod of mud. "We've known Ron since we were my age. We always knew it'd be him, 'cause he's funny, an' he's nice. You wanna be with him, don'cha?"

Her pleading look cut Kim to the quick. Kim opened her arms, beckoning Kimmie into her lap. "Oh, sweetie," cooed Kim, stroking Kimmie's hair. "Those are all great qualities for a best friend to have. But knowing someone for a really long time doesn't mean you're meant to be with him."

"But you already are, 'member?" Kimmie thrust her pudgy finger into Kim's face. Construction paper encircled her ring finger, held there by scotch tape. "We got married!"

Kim answered with a chuckle. "That's very sweet. But it still isn't that simple."

"But why?" whined Kimmie.

Another voice answered from the other side of the tree before Kim could; "Because Ron's our best friend," said a teenaged cheerleader with matter-of-factness. She rounded the tree on tiptoe, bouncing atop the thick roots. The violet of her Mad Dogs cheer uniform shimmered in the shadowed moonlight. "Don't get me wrong, he's a great guy. But the one you're with…he has to make you feel like no one else does."

Kim shooed Kimmie from her lap and stood, brushing the leaves and dirt from her bottom. "And Ron doesn't do that?" she asked with curiosity.

"Ron is just…Ron," explained the teenaged Kim. She swept her hair out of her face in a frustrated gesture, as if the concept were so simple as to be difficult to explain. "But Josh is…Josh!" Struggling, she placed a hand on her stomach and insisted, "I know you feel it. It's excitement. He stirs things up. It's love, just the way you imagined it would be."

Kim regarded herself of a few years ago. Their youngest counterpart clung to her leg, making faces at the teenager while Kim thought of what to say. Truthfully, she thought that Kimmie had the right idea, but she announced anyway, "You're an idiot."

The teenager scowled. "Excuse me? You're the one angling to hook up with Ron. I just happen to think that Josh makes a better statement, is all—"

"Josh?" snapped Kim. "Let me tell you something about Josh Mankey. We dated him, we grew apart, and we jumped right to the next Josh Mankey that came along so it could happen all over again. So don't romanticize the two years I spent crushing on Josh, because that's all it was: a crush."

Teenaged Kim faltered, feeling her point slip away. "But…but when he's near, you feel—"

"Love isn't butterflies!" cried Kim.

She reached down and tore her stomach open. A stream of butterflies swarmed out and vanished into the night sky. The wind of their wings swept Kim's hair back as she watched them go, carrying with them a part of her she knew she didn't need anymore. She smiled, and wished them the best, but felt glad to finally be rid of them.

Closing her stomach, Kim said, "It isn't some stupid feeling in your guts. I'm old enough to know the difference now. And I'm as stupid as you are for not figuring it out sooner."

The cheer-clad Kim stammered, thunderstruck. "But…but…"

A titter turned Kim's head back from her high school self, back to the old tree, where a blushing bide marched across its roots to joint them. Her pristine train snagged in the roots, keeping her a moment so she could gather the enormous dress around her. "Good for you, Kim," an older version of her voice said. "I'm so happy for you. Now we can be with Ron, and everything will be perfect."

"See!" shot Kimmie from below Kim's waist.

The bride swept her veil back, revealing a face made warm and soft by the radiant love Kim always dreamed of, with shimmering emerald swimming in joyous tears. "You saw what the future held for you in his eyes," gushed the bride. "And now, all you have to do is find that one, perfect moment to make it all happen."

Teenaged Kim rolled her eyes. "Corny much?" she asked, and ignored the long raspberry Kimmie shot her.

Kim regarded the woman she could become. Everything she had wanted to be stood before her: her dreams made solid.

"You're dumber than the cheerleader," she decided.

"Hey!" the offended Kims chimed.

"There is no perfect moment," Kim told her. "There will never be a perfect moment. The world's always ending, or we're getting on each other's nerves, or something's always going to be off. And I have to learn to live with that," she shot at the bride.

"But…"

She turned to the teenager. "And it's not about 'making a statement!'"

"But…"

Looking down, she told Kimmie, "And it's not about some promise made by a five-year-old," she said, patting the pouting girl's head.

Kimmie sniffled. "You're mean," she whined.

Teenaged Kim planted her hands on her skirted hips. "So what is it, smart girl? What's it all about?"

"What is it?" demanded the Kim-bride. She gathered her dress around her, struggling to keep it from underfoot.

"What is it?" sniveled Kimmie. "Is it about…kissing?" she whispered fearfully.

"What?"

"What?"

"What will you do?"

"It isn't about what to do!" Kim closed her eyes and clapped her hands over her ears, unable to bear their persecution. "It's about what you feel," she cried. "It's—"

When she opened her eyes and ears again, she was met with dead silence. The empty lot had left her, and taken its trees and doppelgangers with it, and leaving her with empty blackness. A pale figure stood off in the distance, wearing a golden, messy crown and a forlorn look. The gap between them seemed to grow a little more with each passing second, but she knew now that she could cross it in a single step to get to him.

"Knew you'd find the question," a smug voice said from behind. Turning, Kim was surprised to see Monique standing behind her. The ethereal sprite sprouted from the black, balancing a large, silver thermos rimmed with red on her fingertip. It spun in a lazy circle, tantalizing Kim's wide eyes as Monique continued, "Just like I said. You had the answer. And now you know the question."

Kim blurted, "Do I l—"

Monique silenced her with a finger to the lips. "Don't sweat it. Just do it. Oh," she added, "And take this." She tossed the thermos to Kim, who fumbled it into her grasp. With a smile, Monique said, "We'll just assume you were too worked up about other stuff to figure this one out. Consider it a freebee." She snapped her fingers.

Kim awoke with a start, draped across the roots of the old oak. It was still dark out, and she was alone, back where she had started. Only now, she understood everything.

* * *

Fists and feet flashed in Ron's face faster than he could follow. He blocked what he could with leaden arms, and bore the brunt of the rest. New bruises sprung up over the old. His bones creaked, threatening to break if he asked more of them. Looming black waited at the edge of his vision. Breath blurred in and out of his aching chest. And Monkey Fist's laughter rang in his boxed ears.

"What's the matter, Stoppable?" asked Monkey Fist. He spun back and planted his heel in Ron's face, snapping the blond's head sideways and throwing him through the card table set near the kitchen. The sight of his hated rival plunging headlong through his own cheap furniture made Fist smile. "You seem a little worn down."

Ron coughed up a mouthful of blood and desperately wished for some backup. None would come from Rufus; his naked mole rat leapt across the room, chased by four of Fist's half-pint ninjas, staying a tail's length away from their deadly blades. Josh would be of no help; he sat curled in the corner, bullied into submission by the remaining two monkeys.

Fist's foot hammered into Ron's stomach, driving out his idle wishing. The villain's laughter came from on high, bathing Ron in his contempt. "When I heard that you killed my idiot brother, I thought you might actually have become a challenge. I can see I was mistaken."

The sound of steel scraping steel let Ron hear the sword in Fist's hand before he saw it. He spat more blood as he said, "I didn't kill your brother. Some double-D schoolgirl from Japan did. She was twelve times the ninja you are," he rasped, "And I still kicked her ass."

Rage twisted Monkey Fist's face, ending his laughter. "And yet, here we are," he said with a sneer. His katana flashed.

Ron rolled and kicked out blind. He felt the floor shudder at his side with the _thunk_ of the blade, and heard Fist grunt as his foot found purchase in the villain's stomach. Ron scrambled up and ran across the room, ducking an errant monkey blow as he slammed up against the dragon cabinet and threw its doors open.

"Seeking something to wear for your funeral?" groaned Fist as he righted himself. Katana in hand, he advanced on Ron.

Ron grasped the bar stretching across the cabinet's interior, from which all of Yori's abandoned clothes still hung. "This is a ninja wardrobe, dumbass," he said. He ripped the bar out, flinging the clothes to the floor. An arsenal of blades glinted at the back of the cabinet. "And I think I just found something in my size," he crowed.

He seized a stack of shiruken and hurled them in one throw, letting practice and instinct guide his hand. One star each found the monkeys chasing Rufus, and sunk into their charcoal robes. They howled and abandoned their hunt, scrambling to pull the painful points from their flesh. Their quarry scampered up Ron's leg to face their collective foes from his friend's shoulder.

Monkey Fist stopped short as Ron drew out a pair of sais. The handheld tridents flashed in his hand, becoming blurs as he squared off against Fist. "Aw," he cooed, "Wha'sa matter, Chunky Monkey? You look a little down now that the odds ain't so odd no more."

The space between them danced with their blades. "I must admit," said Fist, tracing circles with his katana, "I hadn't budgeted the time for a drawn-out fight. This puts me in a bit of a predicament."

"My heart bleeds for you," Ron said with a sai.

"Quaint," said Fist. His hand flashed to his belt, and he said, "But I fear I must choose the lowbrow solution. I'd ask you to forgive me, but I don't really care what you think." He threw pellets at his feet, enveloping himself and the room in a veil of smoke.

Ron staggered forward through the haze, swinging his weapons ahead of him blindly. He heard Josh's frantic shouts for help, and tried to call back, but the smoke was murder on his harried chest. As the shouts faded, Ron spied a shape outlined on the ground, and leapt for it. "Josh, hold on," he shouted, "I—"

His fingers bounced off the object's smooth casing. Behind the smoky curtain, Ron spied a series of glowing numbers, whose crimson countdown had scant seconds remaining.

* * *

_"Kim, are you sure about this?"_ Wade asked through the Kimmunicator's miniscule speakers. A cup of coffee steamed next to his blurry, keyboarding hands. He wore a look of doubt atop his rumpled Fearless Ferret pajamas, and bags under his eyes. _"This seems a little thin, even by our standards."_

She leveled her irrepressible smile at his bobbing image as she jogged through the streets of Dreidleton. Where once her body felt heavy and stiff, it now flew over the sidewalk, hardly touching it. She had run all the way from Middleton, through Upperton, to the sleepy streets of their neighborhood without so much as a stitch in her side, giving each person she passed an enthused, ecstatic greeting.

"I've never been so sure of anything," she told him. Then her smile broadened at an unspoken correction. "Almost never," she amended. "Look, the point is, I know I'm right. Now I just need you to prove me right with some of your satellite magic."

_"Oh, really?"_ he said wryly. _"Is that all? And what are you gonna be doing in the meantime?"_

"Something much more important," she told him, and shut him away with a flick of her thumb before he could argue. Now was no time for feuding and fretting about madmen and their doomsday tomfoolery. Every other day of her life had been for that. But not today. She would have today for herself. And for him.

No wonder Monique had been so angry! It all seemed so simple now; the question. Looking back, Kim couldn't believe she hadn't gotten it before. 'It's not about what you do,' she thought for the fiftieth time. An obvious revelation, she knew now, but one she couldn't get over.

She rounded the last corner and spied their building. A halo of predawn glowed around it. She ran faster. Her heart, which could go a mile sprinted up a mountainside without a single extra beat, which had gone through countless battles without so much as a flutter, not pounded harder than it ever had before.

"Ron," she murmured to herself, "I know we've been friends forever…" The peaceful warmth returned to her core, spreading itself through her body and whisking her into the air. Her smile became knowing as she continued, more confident, "But now—"

Time slowed: Staring at their window, Kim caught sight of a bright flash. Her smile grew even more; Ron had woken up and turned on the lights. Then she heard the sound of a balloon popping, followed by the crack of a gunshot, and watched their window shatter. Twinkling glass soared out over the street, followed close by a blast of flame. The wall around the window frame crumbled and burst. The air thundered with heat and sound. Fire turned the inside of their apartment red.

"Ron!" screamed Kim.

**To Be Continued**


	9. LoVEless

_All-Purpose Disclaimer_

Kim Possible hates those chapters where it feels like pulling teeth to write. Argh!

* * *

Screaming chaos thundered into Kim as her neighbors stormed out the building's front door, clad in robes and pajamas in their blind panic. Above them, their building roared and snapped with the conflagration left from the explosion Kim witnessed moments before. She fought her way up the steps and through the door, ignoring the careless elbows, the frantic shoulders that beat her back, the chorus of terror that struck her deaf. Indomitable will drove her into the teeming mob, force fueled by a single, desperate thought. 

'Please don't be dead,' pleaded Kim, taking the rickety steps in threes and fours. She plowed through the tail end of the crowd, reaching the second floor. Haunting vacancy greeted her in the hall, unsettling her more than her panicked neighbors had. 'Please don't be dead,' she begged, sprinting to the door marked with a crooked twenty-six above its peephole. She touched the door and recoiled, yelping at the intense heat behind the wood. Then she kicked the door square off its hinges and leapt in after it, heedless of the sweltering wave she dove headlong into.

What little she could see before her was Hell itself, squeezed into the confines of their beloved home. The walls of their bedrooms and the counter between their kitchen and living room had crumbled into combusting mounds. The air ran thick with smoke, blurring the apartment into a pastel smear through her tears. She swiped them clean and ducked low, screaming Ron's name.

"Ron? Where are you?" Kim coughed in the smoky heat. A panicked part of her cried indignantly that she didn't know if Ron had been there for the blast, but conventional Team Possible luck told her otherwise. Regardless, she couldn't leave until she knew either way. "Ron, where are you?" wheezed Kim.

A wall of flame between her and the bedrooms daunted Kim. She marched toward it, ignoring the tremendous heat and the splintering cracks the old roof warned her with. As she crossed the living room, tiny squeals of fear teased her ears through the fire's malevolent roar. Kim turned to a mound of fire splayed out next to the wall, and recognized it at once as the cabinet Yori had left them, tipped onto its front. Its hard wood resisted the inferno, but would not do so for long. And as she stared into its flames, she heard the squeal again, this time for certain.

"Hold on!" shouted Kim. She spun in place, looking for anything to help fight the fire from the cabinet's back, or tip it over, or find another way to open it. Nothing but blaze surrounded her. Smoke stole the sense from her head, leaving it light, heightening her urgency. Darkness spilled into her vision's edge, resolving her dizzy decision.

Praying for the best, Kim plunged her foot into the flaming cabinet with a roar. Searing pain lanced through her leg as her foot penetrated the cabinet. She felt something soft and motionless catch her foot on the other side, across a million miles of agony. She yanked her foot out of the fire and fell back, coughing, crying, slapping the fires on her leg silent, and hoping that whatever she had felt was still alive.

A pink blur sprang out of the cabinet's hole and onto Kim's stomach, where it clung to her tank top and wailed. She held the terrified mole rat close and choked, "Rufus, are you okay? Where's Ron?"

An inhuman howl split the cabinet's broken back. It erupted into a geyser of glowing splinters, with Ron Stoppable at its core, covered in burns and patches of fire as he collapsed at Kim's feet. She fell atop him, beating the smaller flames from his body as he pressed his face into her chest, heaving guttural breaths in and out.

"Ron," Kim shouted in his ear, coughing. "Ron, it's me! It's Kim!"

His fingers dug painfully at her sides as he looked up with feral panic behind his tears. But the look evaporated when his eyes met hers, and he mouthed two familiar letters that filled her with hope. Then Ron sagged against her midsection, mumbling the letters over and over.

Kim reached down and snagged Ron's arm and leg. "C'mon, Rufus," she said. Rufus skittered down her shirt front and dove into her pocket, tugging its flap closed behind him. Bending further, she hefted Ron onto her shoulders in one jerky motion. The added bulk nearly brought her to her knees. "Cripes, Ron," she grunted, gagging on a cinder. "I think I'd prefer your baby fat to all this muscle right now."

She staggered back toward the broken door. Halfway there, the ceiling made good on its creaky warnings, giving way to a torrential stream of fiery debris that plunged into their path. Kim swore and screamed and railed at the insurmountable blockade to no avail. The fire fed off her anger, growing as if to spite her.

With nowhere left to go, Kim turned back and trudged deeper into the apartment. Her hopes sank fast, but then lifted when she caught sight of the blown-out window. She stumbled across the waning snatches of unscorched floor while her whirling mind recalled the line of cars parked in front of their building.

"S'hot," Ron murmured in her ear. "Turrna headown."

Kim's body wracked with deep coughing. The hellish inferno around them melted together behind tears she couldn't wipe away for fear of dropping Ron. Unable to trust her eyes, she let memory guide her to the gaping hole in the wall, sobbing each time she wandered too close to the deadly flames. The blackness ate the edges of her vision, which swam with blurry dawn. Wisps of a cool breeze kissed her face, and she wheezed, "I hope Mister Weinberg hasn't moved that VW van of his."

Summoning the last of her strength, Kim threw herself out of the hole. Ron fell by her side, guided by her questionable judgment into the open air. Cool freshness flew past her burns, pulled the tears from her eyes, and swept the smoky air from her lungs. For one brief instant, the world became crystal clear; Kim saw Ron twisting beside her, and pulled him close. Then she felt a terrible blow, and heard the screech of metal compacting beneath her. Then, darkness.

* * *

**Kim Possible**  
**The Power of Friendship**

_by Cyberwraith9_

* * *

_"You are such a spaz."_

_Ronnie Stoppable gave his best friend a pained look. "Will you just give it a rest?" he shot at Kimmie. The pillow propping him up sighed as he flopped back. He folded his arms and stared pointedly between the posts at the foot of his bed. A pout rested on his lips, one he knew would flee if it caught sight of the smirk on Kimmie's face, and he wanted to stay peeved at her for as long as possible. Being dizzy and nauseous with painkillers helped in that respect._

_Bemusement whistled through Kimmie's teeth in a hissing laugh. "I'm sorry," she said, not sorry in the least. "But you are." Her knuckles rapped on the itchy cast wrapped around his leg, before his flailing hand chased them away. "I mean, how many kids jump off the roof because they think they can fly?"_

_"Lots," said Ronnie, sneering._

_"Okay." Kimmie spoke with the maddening patience of someone who knew without a doubt that she was right. "And how many people our age do it?"_

_Thought trudged through Ronnie's mind, turning to indignant puffing as it reached his face. "Not so lots," he admitted. Crimson laced his scrunched cheeks._

_She nodded, and leaned against his bedside. Her bright eyes devoured the coarse casing of his leg with ravenous curiosity. "I hope you learned a lesson," she said._

_Glum, he nodded too. "Yeah. That the good people at Cubix Box and Packaging need to design a better, more aerodynamic cardboard."_

_"Or," she suggested, "That cardboard makes for poor wings."_

_"Yeah, yeah," he jeered. "And knowing is half the battle. I get it, okay?" Ronnie moaned and tore the pillow out from behind him. He smothered his face with the flat of the pillow, clutching at its edges. "This sucks," he said. "Now I don't get to go to camp. Mom says I gotta wait next year for Wannaweep. My whole summer's down the tubes."_

_"Bitter much?" Kimmie teased. "Relax. There'll be plenty of other summers." She reached down and pulled a book bag from under her seat. Its straining zipper groaned as she opened the bag, revealing a host of battered boxes and sheaves of dog-eared paper. "Look, I brought a bunch of board games we could do, and some other junk. Videos, too."_

_"Humph," sniffed Ronnie, lifting his nose to her bag. "I don't feel like playing 'bored' games."_

_"It's just until you feel up to leaving the house," insisted Kimmie. "Then we can go outside again."_

_He scalded her with an incredulous look. "Hello? You leave for cheer camp tomorrow." Downcast, he added, "An' I'll be stuck here. With my parents."_

_Kimmie struck the sad from his face with a scoff. "Like I'd leave you by yourself like this?" she said. "You're helpless enough when you're healthy. Who knows what'd happen if I left now? You'd probably break your back, or something." Kimmie dug through the bag, producing a box of markers. She pulled a fat, black marker from the box, and said, "Now, let's sign your cast."_

_"You…you aren't going?" asked Ronnie in a quiet voice. "But you've been talking nonstop about—"_

_"So not the drama," Kimmie said, cutting him off. She kept her eyes locked on his cast, pretending to consider what to write, but Ronnie could see the disappointment glinting in her eyes, still fresh and stinging. After a moment, she said, "I'm cool with it. Just…" And she looked up, giving him a slight smile. "Just don't break anything next summer, okay?"_

_Ronnie smiled. "Deal."_

_She nodded smartly. "Okay then. Now…" And she proceeded to draw a big K-P atop his leg, so large and extravagant that no one could possibly miss it._

* * *

His dreams evaporated into ether, taking with them any meaning or memory he might have garnered from them. They left in their wake a blank, stark ceiling, accompanied by the soft pip of machinery and the smell of sickly antiseptics. The transition was difficult for him, but soon enough he accustomed himself to his waking senses, chasing the last vestiges of the dream from his mind in favor of this new reality. 

Question formed at his lips as he lifted his head from a brick-like pillow to examine the featureless white walls around him, but he hadn't the voice to speak them. Instead, he let his gaze dart about, searching for any sign of what had happened. His heart pounded with a primal sense of fear, and the mechanical pip sped accordingly. Glancing to his side, he saw a set of machines and fluid bags mounted at his side, with tubing snaking from their underbellies to a band on his wrist, where they disappeared into his arm.

_Hospital_. The word entered his mind, but brought with it no comfort. Instead, snatches of the moments prior to his memory blackout returned in full force, terrifying him with images of flashing steel and snippets of hooting laughter. The pip of his heartbeat accelerated. His eyes lolled about the endless white of the room, panicked, until they came across a flash of color at rest at the foot of his bed.

Ron sat up with a gasp, locking his eyes on the scarlet pooled atop his sheets. The frazzled ball of hair rested atop folded arms, with shoulders behind it that rose and fell at an even rate. As his movement shifted the bedding about, the red rolled aside, revealing a closed eye dancing beneath its lid atop the arms, with lips beneath it that mumbled sleepy nonsense. His heartbeat slowed, his breathing ceased, as he stared at the beautiful creature camped at his feet.

The room's only door squeaked open, admitting another flash of red into the room atop the creamy folds of a clean, white coat. Ron welcome the color in the drab room, and felt the knot in his chest loosen at the smile beneath the cropped, carroty crown of his new visitor. "So," Missus Possible said in a warm tone, "He awakens."

Ron tried to rise, struggling to put voice to his sluggish thoughts. "D…Doctor P?" he asked.

Missus Possible strode to Ron's bedside. Her hand pressed Ron back into his pillow, and she gave him a no-nonsense look. "If you try to get out of this bed again," she told him, "I will sedate you with the biggest needle I can find. Understood?" She plucked a clipboard from the end of his bed and produced a pen.

"Where…?" Pressure throbbed between Ron's temples, a buildup of question that his raw throat could not expel fast enough. He winced and clutched at his head, trying to sit up.

She pressed him back down, and then set about scribbling figures and notes taken from the readouts at his bedside. "You're in the hospital," she said. The clipboard returned to its hook on his bed, replaced with a small flashlight she fished out of her pocket. She peeled his eyes open and flashed the light in each eye. Whatever she saw in them seemed to satisfy her, for she pocketed the light, and then set about feeling around Ron's scalp and throat. "Your apartment exploded this morning," she explained. "I don't know much beyond that, except that you're in perfect health."

Ron's memory burned with the red numbers of a countdown. He recalled diving into Yori's dragon cabinet and slamming the door behind him. The world of his memory shook and blazed, and then… "Kim!" he cried. "Rufus!" He tried to bolt up, only to be bounced back down by Missus Possible's firm hand. "Are they—"

"Both fine," she assured him. Ron's quickened breath eased down as Missus Possible smiled at her slumbering daughter. Her hand plumbed the depths of her white coat again, this time producing a small pile of pink putty, which she poured into Ron's grateful grasp. The tiny ooze stirred softly before melting in the palm of his hand, curling around his thumb with a sigh. "There's nothing wrong with either of you medically, aside from some mild exhaustion and dehydration." With a flash of annoyance, she added to the insensate Kim, "Which is the only reason she isn't in a bed too."

A grateful sigh eased Ron back into his bed. He set the sleeping Rufus at his side and murmured, "Thank God."

Missus Possible drew a chair up to his bedside, sitting with a nod. "Mmm. Strangest thing, really. Usually, when people are in a fire, there's burn trauma to deal with, respiratory damage from smoke inhalation…but you two are totally fine."

Her over-casual tone put Ron on edge. "Um…thank God?" he said again.

"Which is very odd," she continued. "The EMTs that arrived on scene to pull you two out of that van's roof said you were both dreadfully injured." A faux-thoughtful look furrowed her brow. "They had the most outlandish tale to tell. It seems that, on the way here, a strange red light enveloped you both, and started healing you. What was it they said?" She rapped a knuckle against her chin, sucking in a breath. "Like watching a film in reverse." Missus Possible leveled her eyes at Ron, and said, "Isn't that odd?"

"I, uh…" Sweat beaded on the back of Ron's neck. An apprehensive lump clogged his throat, garbling his words. "I guess you'd be a mite curious about that, huh?" He flexed his hand, searching for any spark of the power Missus Possible described, but felt none. He would have gladly explained to her the mystic predicament he found himself in if it meant having his old power again, but none came at his internal summons, try though he might.

Missus Possible kept him trapped with a strange look. But her inescapable baby blues swung away from him, turning instead to the cherubic face nestled in Ron's sheets. "Someday," she murmured. "But not today." Her fingers combed through the crimson tangle atop her daughter's head. The serenity written into Kim's tired features drew a smile out of Ron, while her mother said, "Today, I'll just be grateful that both of you are all right."

The spell between mother and daughter reached out and captured Ron, holding his eyes captive on Kim's peaceful countenance. His breathing unconsciously matched hers. "How long has she been here?" he asked in a hush, loath to break the spell.

"As long as you have," Missus Possible said. "You've been asleep almost an entire day. I tried to get her to leave, just so she could get some rest, but…" Her lips quirked. "Well, let's just say that one of my orderlies received a black eye and a lesson in when to bend the rules on visiting hours."

The conversation stilled as they sat and watched Kim slumber. Her eyelids flickered with the excitement of a dream unseen. Whatever her dreams, they curved her lips. Ron wished he were the source of that smile, all the while remembering that he wasn't. 'How could someone so gorgeous give me so much grief?' he thought with a smirk. 'She's like an angel…'

"Things have been rough for you two this past week, haven't they?" asked Missus Possible. The question caught Ron unawares. His smirk dissolved, but he remained silent. "You know," she said uneasily, "I've meant to thank you for a long time now." The smirk that fled from his face found hers, and bore warmth upon Kim in a tender kiss to her cheek. "It's not the sort of thing that comes up in everyday conversation, but…" Her hand ran through Kim's silken strands once more. "You've brought so much love into Kim's life."

Ron considered the object of his consternation. "Sometimes," he said softly, "I think things would have been a lot easier if I never met her. I can't help that. But I couldn't imagine my life without her if I tried. She just…" He paused, biting his lip. "She makes me feel better than I am. Like I could do anything, just because she's there." Looking down, Ron confessed, "How could I not…?'

Missus Possible laid a hand atop Ron's, drawing his eyes back up. Her gentle smile struck him dumb. "That's nice too," she said, "But that isn't what I meant." With a gentle squeeze, she told him, "You've given Kim someone she can love."

"I…I'm not…" stammered Ron.

She shook her head. "Trust me," said Missus Possible, "It's there. You've both lived with it your entire lives. You don't see it anymore. But I do, in a thousand little things."

He drew his legs to his chest, careful not to disturb the sheets lest he wake Kim. His chin rested atop his knee as he wrapped his arms around his legs and leaned forward. "Like what things?" he muttered.

Gloom persisted while a motherly hand ruffled his hair. "The way you laugh together," she said with a serene smirk. "The way you look at each other. The way you talk to each…" Her serenity dropped at his short, disbelieving laugh. "What?" she asked.

Ron shook his head. "Nothing," he said. "It's just that someone else told me almost the exact same thing. I thought he was lying."

Soft lips grazed his forehead, melting his sardonic misery. "Hear it once, and it's a lie," Missus Possible murmured. "Hear it twice, it's a coincidence. How many more times do you think it'd take until it becomes truth, Ron?"

The pressure in Ron's head ceased as his eyes returned to Kim. "I guess it all depends on who says it," said Ron.

"Smart boy," Missus Possible said. She stood, and straightened her jacket before turning toward the door. "I have to go. There's a whole hospital of people in a lot worse condition than you. But remember," she warned him with waggling finger, "If you even think of getting out of that bed…"

He held his hands up in surrender. "I know, I know, you'll stick me. Tranqs a lot, Doc." Then his smile lost its wry, and he added, "Seriously. Thank you."

She gave him a nod. Then, halfway through the open door, she paused, and turned back. "Being loved is one of the best feelings in the world, Ron," she told him. "But loving someone? Nothing can compare to that. Maybe that's why I'm so grateful Kim has you." With a knowing wink, she slipped through the door, closing it behind her.

Ron sat in silent dialogue with himself. The gentle sound of Kim's breathing kept each notion marching in time as they entered his mind. He stared, captivated by the rise and fall of her shoulders, the curling sweep of her hair across his bed. Everything else in the room vanished, leaving him alone with Kim and his thoughts.

"What's so special about Kim Possible," he muttered. A deluge of answers flooded his thoughts. "Okay, okay," he said, beating back the flood, and amended, "So what isn't so special about her?" Another wave of answers came to him, smaller, more manageable than the first. A million tiny irritations dripped into individual thoughts—the way she bossed him around, the way she took forever getting ready to go out, the way nothing was ever good enough for her—and he found, to no surprise, that he didn't care about any of them.

Ron stretched his hand out, hoping to find answers in Kim's soft cheek. She shifted at his touch, reaching out to snag his hand and draw it to the crook of her neck. There, she cuddled against it. Her smile doubled.

His thoughts all drained away, replaced by borrowed warmth that seeped from Kim into every nook of his being. "You," he murmured to her, "Are a major pain. But Mon's right; I can't lie about it." He brushed an errant lock of hair from her face, musing aloud, "I guess the real question is, do I love you enough to let you go?" But he already knew the answer to that, too, and it put a sad smile on his face.

Thinking of Kim's true love dredged up more details from his blackout. Josh's cries called to him, begging for help. "KP," whispered Ron, "You gotta wake up." He shook her gently, but she refused to abandon her slumber. She twisted away from his nudges, keeping her grip locked on his hand.

With tender fingers, Ron reached down and pinched her nostrils shut. Kim snorted a moment, then jerked awake with a wild gasp. When she laid eyes on his sad smile, she leapt forward and crushed him into her embrace. "Ron!" she cried, burying her face in the nape of his neck. "Oh my God, you're okay. You're okay. Thank God you're okay."

"I won't be if you—urk!" The creak of his spine urged Kim off of him before she broke him in two. "Good to see you too," he croaked after a few deep breaths. "Feels like you're your old self again."

Her arms slid around him again, this time with restraint. Ron flinched as she sidled up next to him. The warmth of her body gave him chills through his thin hospital gown. "You are so lucky," she said into his shoulder. "If you'd've died, you would be in so much trouble."

Ron felt himself returning the hug on reflex. He patted her on the back and did his best to ignore the scent of strawberries teasing him from her red mane. "Guess I'm the luckiest guy in the world," he said into the heavenly locks, feeling anything but. "Nobody causes trouble like Kim Possible."

She said nothing, only hugged him harder. Ron closed his eyes and felt his own arms tighten around her. The curve of her body fit perfectly with his, and he could feel her lips resting on his bare neck. Her breath rolled across his skin, calling goose bumps to its surface. All of it, in Ron's opinion, proved without a doubt the absence of any justice in their world.

But he would not lie to himself any longer. "KP," he mumbled, pulling her back, "There's something I have to tell you."

"Me too," she breathed.

He shook his head, insisting, "No, Kim, you…you have to listen."

Kim balked at his hardened face, losing her joy in favor of trepidation. "Ron, is everything…what's wrong?"

"It…It's about Josh."

The door burst open, clapping against the wall and shocking the teens apart. Rufus leapt from his slumber with a squeal as a trinity of Stoppables stormed in with panicked fury, slamming into Ron's bed. They nearly unseated Kim as they took turns hugging and fussing over Ron.

"Oh, my poor baby!" wailed Missus Stoppable, crushing Ron's head to her chest. She sobbed joyful tears into her son's matted hair, which she favored with a hail of kisses. "My little man is alive!"

Kim smiled at Ron's blush as his mother bawled her happiness all over him. "Family moment," she muttered, and backed away. "I'd better…" At his desperate look, she mouthed the word, 'Later,' and gave him a tiny wave.

Uncle Don shoved his brother aside and knelt beside his nephew. As Kim slipped through the door, she heard Don ask, "Ronald, are you all right? Anything broken? Everything okay?"

"I think so," Ron replied between motherly smooches.

Kim chuckled as she shut the door. Through the closing crack, she heard Don say, "Good. Then you'll be fit to work the rest of your life to pay me back for blowing up MY BUILDING!"

* * *

Dementor's steps echoed off high ceilings as he crossed his inner sanctum at a furious pace. Broken tile crunched beneath his boot, but he hardly noticed. The shambles of his once-great fortress had scabbed over in his heart, helped along by the anticipation of their Legion's impending success. Buildings could be rebuilt. Armies could be gathered again. But at the moment, Dementor was concerned with the high-pitched whine of machinery coming from outside that had awoken him. 

"Dummkopfs," he grumbled, straightening his helmet. The hallway doors squealed aside, clearing his way to the twinkling dawn that painted the ground outside the sanctum's entrance. "They are sorely testing my patience."

Daylight parted for his broad shoulders to squeeze out of the stuck, half-ajar gateway of the sanctum. The mechanical screech that had stirred him was louder, undiluted, and didn't take but a moment to discover its source. He gritted his teeth against its resonance in his helmet and strode forward. The fury in his veins came to a boil.

"What is this?" bellowed Dementor to the sleek aircraft parked in his courtyard. "My Egressor Vehicular Assault Craft? Where…How…Put that down!"

The long line of Drakken's henchmen paused a moment, halting the train of boxes and components that were destined for the cargo platform lowered from the jet's smooth underbelly. Dementor puffed, watching them lean against everything of value left in his lair and stare at him with dopey goggles. Then, chuckling, they returned to their work, stacking the crates atop the pallet.

"Ah, Professor," Drakken's voice smarmed from behind him. "I thought you were still asleep. Hope we didn't wake you." Dementor whirled about to face him. A fresh look of pride and excitement waited for him in Drakken's face. Even the mad scientist's eyes gleamed with the promise of a new day, _his_ day. "Careful," said Drakken, and eased Dementor aside to make way for a pair of henchmen and the large crate they carried between them. "Busy morning, quite a lot to do. You understand."

Dementor's eyes jumped from crate to crate. They spied several unboxed components sitting on the EVAC's cargo pallet and recognized them at once. "My Entropy Cannon! What have you done to it?" he screeched.

Sarcastic scorn whistled from Drakken's nose. "Disassembled it, obviously. You don't expect us to move it intact to our new site, do you?"

"What new—"

"Middleton," said Drakken. He swept Dementor aside again to allow the Cannon's long, ringed barrel to be loaded onto the pallet. "Not the most strategically important city in America, I know. But I think it's important for your work to reflect some personal interests. Don't you agree?"

Dementor threw Drakken's arm from his shoulders. Livid red shone from the slits in his helmet, beaming pure hat into his rival's blasé smile. "And when were you going to tell me about this relocation?" he demanded.

With a smile, Drakken answered, "Why, never. But then, you're smart. You figured that out already."

A howl split the air between them as Dementor tore his jacket front open. He yanked the ray gun holstered at his shoulder free and thrust its barrel at Drakken's head. Its ovoid end trembled with fury, and rattled in his glove. "You insufferable wretch," he hissed. The words barely escaped his choking rage. "How dare you…"

"Oh, honestly," yawned Drakken. He stared down the end of Dementor's gun, and plucked a piece of lint from its tip. "You can't tell me that you didn't see this coming."

Dementor's eyes narrowed. "Your betrayal is no surprise," he said. "But that you would do nothing to disguise it…It disgusts me. It insults me." He paused, eyeing the steady creases around Drakken's smile. Behind them, the henchmen hadn't paused in the least at the power struggle; they continued loading the plane, hardly giving the two scientists a second glance. Scowling, Dementor asked, "You have an alternate facility to move the operation to?"

Drakken nodded. "Prime real estate for threatening the Tri-City area with a doomsday weapon."

"The others are already at this facility?"

"Shego and Killigan are getting it out of mothballs now," Drakken explained. "I sent Monkey Fist on an errand for me. He's meeting us there."

Craning his stumpy neck, Dementor watched the henchmen finish the last of the loading. They loitered around the lowered hatch of the plane, watching their employer stare down the end of Dementor's gun without blinking. Dementor's scowl became a sneer as he said, "The Cannon appears to be intact, if disassembled. The plans have all been set into motion. They just need someone to oversee it all."

"So it would seem," Drakken agreed cheerfully.

Dementor's sneer grew. He pressed the ray gun into Drakken's ribs, but the jab did nothing to Drakken's serene smile. "Then you have outlived your usefulness," Dementor told him. "I think it is time a real intellect took the helm of your fool legion."

A ponderous hum rumbled in Drakken's throat. "And that intellect is you?" he asked in a bored tone.

"I despise you, Lipsky," snarled Dementor. "Everything about you mocks what I stand for. You parade around, flaunting your faux intellect. You are a disgrace to our noble craft, and I will enjoy snuffing your miserable existence out with my own hand."

"That would be ducky," said Drakken, "If it weren't for two things."

Dementor's finger mashed down on the trigger. His gun gave a pathetic cough in lieu of the concentrated stream of death he had designed it to deliver.

"Firstly," explained Drakken, as Dementor slammed the butt of his pistol against his palm, "I was smart enough to sap the charge out of that popgun of yours."

A blow caught Dementor from behind, rattling his head inside his helmet. He fell to the ground, dazed. Drakken's face loomed over his, soon joined by a second, more handsome face that wore a sneer identical to the first's. Twin boots lifted over Dementor's eyes and fell, crushing his helmet front and casting his world into painful blackness.

"And second," Drakken said to his insensate foe, "I was smart enough to make backup." He slapped the shoulder of his young assistant, ruffling his combed locks into a frazzle with fatherly delight. "Well done," he said to the young man. "That's something I wanted to do for quite some time now."

The handsome teen swept his hair back into place, wearing a sinister smile on his lips. "Thanks, dad," he said, and straightened the lines of his red jumpsuit.

Drakken started for the EVAC, beckoning for his assistant to follow. "Come along, Nine-Zero-One," he called. "We have a long trip ahead of us. And after that, I have a job for you."

The synthodrone fell into step behind his creator. "What's that?" he asked.

Drakken answered his drone's silent hopes with one sweet, beautiful word: "Payback."

**To Be Continued**


	10. Complications

_All-Purpose Disclaimer_

Bitten by a radioactive author at a book signing, mild mannered Clarence Ninesville underwent a startling transformation: he gained the uncanny ability to form cogent metaphors, to type into the wee hours of the morning, and finally understood what the word "cogent" meant. Donning a disguise and diving into the internet, he vowed to bring to his newfound audience the very best in mediocre fanfiction. He is Cyberwraith Nine, and he works alone, without profit, to bring you these adventures of Kim Possible. This is his story.

* * *

_A tray of the most unappetizing food Kim had ever laid eyes on rattle in her hands as she ascended the stark, white stairwell. She kept the tray a safe distance from her nose, preferring the sterile smell of the hospital to what its cafeteria passed off as corned beef and mashed potatoes. More of the same pseudo-sustenance sat in her stomach like a brick. She would have left the hospital for food, but had been unwilling to leave so long as Ron could not come with her._

_Kim backed through the stairwell door and skipped down the hall, greeting doctors, nurses, and patients along the way, whether she knew them or not. Since the night before, it felt as though a great weight had at last been lifted from her heart, just as the blinders had been lifted from her eyes. Now it felt as though she truly could do anything._

_She spotted Uncle Don stepping out of the room, tugging his fisherman's cap low across his brow. His bushy mustache curled at the sight of Kim. "Well, well, if it isn't the prettiest Candy Striper since Florence Nightingale," he said._

_"Florence Nightingale was an inspiration to women everywhere, and not a Candy Striper, you chauvinist tightwad," she said lightly, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek. "Hello, by the way."_

_"Hello yourself," he replied, pretending to swoon at her kiss. "Is that my new indentured servant's last supper?" Don tried to snatch the tile-like apple crumble from the tray, only to be slapped off by Kim. "Humph. Doesn't look appetizing anyway."_

_She spared him a humorous, irritated glance before becoming serious. "Listen," she said, "I hope you aren't going to be too hard on Ron. It's not his fault, and he's…well, he's had a really rough week. Mostly because of me," she added in a shrinking voice._

_A great guffaw shook his belly, jiggling the strained buttons of his shirt. "So all these years, you've been one of those costumed ne'er-do-wells, too? Glory be, girl, the rest of us couldn't handle your double life, let alone another one spent blowing up buildings and lazy teenagers." At her confusion, he patted her on the back, and said, "You didn't burn out your apartment any more than Ronald did. I'm just exercising my right as his uncle to give him crap. Don't worry, though. I'm not about to steal your sidekick from you."_

_A dead chuckle rattled Kim's throat. "Yeah," she grunted to her feet. Hesitating a moment more, she added, "I guess I never really thought about how much trouble being my friend can be for Ron…or the rest of you."_

_The smile dropped from Don's face like a stone. He cupped her dour chin with a father's gentleness, lifting it from her chest and pulling her eyes to his. "Now you listen to me, Kimberly," he said. "Don't you go feeling sorry for any of us, least of all this old codger. There isn't a young person out there that doesn't put gray hairs on their family every now and then. Even the great Kim Possible is no exception, y'hear? And don't think for one minute that it ever makes those old coots love their troublemakers any less."_

_Kim watched Don's round, stern face blur. She broke his gaze with a laugh to hide her tears until she could quell them. "And that includes cranky landlords and their fiery tenants," she asked with shaky sarcasm._

_"No," he said. "That goes for uncles and their nieces." Don's face and voice softened. "I know I can speak for John and Yvonne," he murmured, and placed a hand on her shoulder, "When I say that all of us are glad for the day Ron brought you into our family." One insistent drop spilled out of Kim's eye as she looked back up. It tickled its way down her smile, until Don's coarse thumb swiped it away. "There now," he said, "That's the kind of face I like to see."_

_"Thanks, Uncle Don," she said. Balancing Ron's tray in one hand, she gave Don a one-armed hug, which he returned twofold. "I've been a little turned around lately."_

_"Keep turning," he whispered in her ear. "You'll face forward eventually." They split apart. Don gave her a theatrical bow, and then toddled off, biting into an apple crumble with the consistency of hard tack. _

_Kim glanced down at the tray's empty partition and shook her head. Despite his thievery of the dessert, Don's words would keep the smile on her face long after she backed into the hospital room, through her best friend's protests of the food's quality, past the discussion of what must be done, and all the way up until Ron broke the news to her of the other person that had been caught in their apartment during Monkey Fist's attack…a person that they couldn't account for yet._

* * *

**Kim Possible**  
**The Power of Friendship**

_by Cyberwraith9_

* * *

_"Kim? Kim, are you still there?"_

The passenger hold of their GJ hover jet rattled around them with the force of supersonic flight. Normally whisper-quiet, the craft's design strained against the speed its own engines demanded of it, propelling them high over the crystal waters of the Pacific faster than any human ever had before. But nothing could be fast enough for Kim Possible, who shook herself from her reverie to answer the insistent voice from her Kimmunicator. "Sorry, Wade," she said, tossing the hair from her face. "You said thirty-eight percent?"

Wade nodded within the confines of his palmtop screen. _"Thereabouts."_ Clacking keys split the screen at his command, bringing up a satellite photo of Dementor's island stronghold. The image then darkened into a negative of itself, with pale ghosts of light strung across its interior. _"His power centers are still shot to hell, and I'm picking up minor radiation leaks from all over the complex. Best guess is he'll have less than thirty-eight percent of his weapons and defenses still running."_

Kim nodded. "Makes sense. We beat him down bad last time. What about our missing Inducer?"

At that, Wade shook his head and made a face. _"Nothing more since my last reading fifteen hours ago. But that doesn't mean anything. They could have masked the signature, or taken it underground, or something else."_

Her slinky stealth suit creaked as she leaned back to examine its matte-black surface. "What about these?" she asked. "I know you haven't had a lot of time to run maintenance on them. Will they do the job?"

_"The Inelastic Generators should have enough left for one more drop."_ Checking the readout on his tertiary monitor, he added, _"Stealth capability appears to be intact. They won't see you coming through infrared unless you stand right in front of them."_

"Got it," she said. "Thanks, Wade. You rock." Kim stowed the device in a compartment on her belt, and then leaned back with a deep breath. While she exhaled, she noticed a pensive look on the compartment's only other occupant. His brow furrowed with uncharacteristic thought, whereas his voice remained oddly absent in the small space. The lack of his banter made her uneasy, so she said, "Penny for your thoughts."

Ron sat on the bench opposite Kim with his legs gathered up to his chest, wrapped in place by his arms. Soft snoring drifted out of a pouch on his belt, eliciting a giggle from Kim that she managed to keep internalized. "Might not be a wise investment," he warned her. His eyes remained on the floor. "I'm just still a little fuzzy on how you knew to look for Drakken's bunch at Dementor's place."

"Simple," said Kim. She unclasped her equipment belt and began checking each device it held. Given that she had done this twice before, it seemed unnecessary, but it kept her hands busy and her eyes away from Ron, lest the twinkle in them give away more than she was ready to. "Back at the heist they pulled on the Evidence Locker, they made sure to do as much damage as possible to the stuff they didn't plan on taking. Fires, explosions…"

"Giant Japanese robots," said Ron.

Kim nodded. "Right. At first, I thought this was just Villain One-Oh-One; take what you want, smash the rest. It hit me when we started compiling the losses at the Locker: they torched everything so we couldn't separate what they took, and what they crispy-fried."

Ron bit his lip. "Okay," he said. "I'll buy that. But I'm still a few steps short from the tie-in with Doctor Dwarfenstein."

"But that's just it," Kim insisted. "They gave us the connection when they torched the place." When his confusion didn't budge, she asked, "When we took back the Pan Dimensional Vortex Inducer and handed it over to Global Justice, where do you suppose it went?"

"The Locker," said Ron. "So?"

Impatient breath whistled out her nose. "So," she said, "When the Inducer is activated or breached, it created a reality-annihilating vortex the size of Nevada. GJ didn't find it in the Locker, which means it didn't survive the fire."

His knobby mental fingers began to grasp Kim's line of thought. "Except Middleton isn't Ground Zero, which means it wasn't there to survive the fire," he said.

Kim checked over her grapnel gun. She sighted Ron's apathetic understanding along the gun's black barrel before holstering it back into her belt. "Now, regardless of Drakken's recent brush with cleverness, we know he's a lousy scientist," Kim reminded him. "This means he probably hasn't built anything that can use the Inducer yet. Not enough time since his 'early parole.' And we would have heard about him stealing anything Inducer-ready."

"So we'd be looking for someone who already had plans for the Inducer," said Ron, drawing the last line in their puzzle. "Someone with a history with Drakken."

"Or someone desperate enough to take him in. Remember what Mister Voice said the night of the heist? 'Your actions at Dementor's lair have forced their hand.'"

"Which means that LoVE has a definite link with our favorite midget lunatic," said Ron. "Clever." He grunted, and resumed his examination of the deck plating.

Her belt snapped back into place, sliding comfortably onto either side of her hips. "That's it in a nutshell," she agreed, wriggling her hips to settle the belt. "But that wasn't really what you were thinking." She plucked some lint from her collar to avoid his mild surprise, or the sight of it would release the smile she fought so hard to hold back. "So," said Kim, sitting back down on her bench, "Now that we've danced around the issue, why don't you tell me what's got you so down."

"I..." Ron squirmed beneath her placid gaze. He looked about, desperate for something, anything, in which to escape, but her entreating emeralds took over the compartment. They were everywhere, and they drained all deception from his body. "Well," he said miserably, "I was thinking about you."

Coy mirth curled her lips. Her hand fluttered to her breast as she said, "Really? How flattering!"

"—and Josh," he added too quickly. Humiliation pooled in his cheeks and crept up his neck. "I just…I think it's great that you found someone. I really do."

"Mm-hmm," Kim hummed.

"I know there's been a lot of static between us," said Ron. "And I know you must be worried, wondering if Josh is okay or not. But I know we'll find him. And…" He hesitated again, becoming redder in the interim. "And I think that, after this is finished, and we have him back, I…I'm gonna step back. Take some time away."

Kim arched an eyebrow at him. She reached into her belt and drew forth a long, thin strip of cloth. "How long?" she asked.

The question startled Ron: Not 'Why' or 'how could you,' but 'how long?' He watched her gather her hair into a ponytail and tie it off with the black sash. Locks of red swept across her forehead, curtaining her eyes. He felt them pierce through the veil, bringing back that old ache. "I, uh…I dunno."

"Where?"

Another unexpected question. "I, uh, hadn't thought of that, either," he said.

Finished, she tossed her hair behind her and swept the bangs from her face. Her sultry look made him balk. "Back to Japan, maybe?" Kim asked without inflection. She rose from the bench, and suddenly Ron couldn't help but notice every curve of her body kept prisoner in the tight stealth suit. "Yori would be glad to see you, I'm sure," she said.

"Huh?" Yori wasn't anywhere near his thoughts. He jerked his eyes to Kim's face, which began to crack with disappointment. "Yeah, I dunno," he said lamely.

Kim paced to the end of the compartment with ponderous steps. Ron watched the way she moved, entranced by her fluidity, terrified by what she might say. But whatever his expectations, they shattered as she turned and flashed him a smile. "Okay," she said.

"Oh…Okay?" echoed Ron.

She nodded. "Okay." With a light chuckle, she said, "Why? What am I supposed to do? Pitch a fit? Yell at you, or something?"

He frowned. "Yes?"

"Oh, Ron." Kim sauntered forward with a knowing look. "Do you really think I don't notice how unhappy you are? You're my best friend, and I hate to see you like this." She sat down next to him and placed a hand on his stealth-clad leg. He jolted, but she just kept her smile in place and held him in his seat. "I want you to be happy, Ron." Her smile broke as she added, "And if that means you can't be here with me and be happy…then something has to change, doesn't it?"

"I…don't know what to say," he admitted.

"Then don't say anything," she told him. "Right now, I need your help, and I need you focused. After this is over, I promise you," and she leveled her gaze into his, and spoke in a solemn voice, "Whatever you want, whatever you need, I'll do everything in my power to help you. If you need to go halfway around the world, or to some little monastery and your sexy ninja girlfriend, I'll call in every favor I have to get you there."

Ron looked into everything he could ever want. He swallowed the truth, and lied; "What if I don't know?"

Her smile returned. She pressed a hand to his face to keep him from looking away. "Then we'll figure that out together. But after this mission. And," she added, "On the condition that I get five minutes to talk to you before you go anywhere." Tender fingers brushed the hair from his lofted eyebrows. "Promise?"

Before Ron could answer, Doctor Director's voice piped in through the compartment's loudspeaker: "T-minus five to the drop zone," she relayed.

Kim tucked her hair into the back of her suit. "Remember the plan," she said, fitting a micro-transceiver into her ear. "Nothing fancy. We take point, and go in as quick as we can."

An identical device fit into Ron's ear while he rolled his eyes. "Yeah," he said, "And trip every trap along the way so the GJ boys can have a clear path behind us."

She pulled the hood of her suit over her head. Only her eyes remained outside of the matte black. "Probably," she said. "But it's the fastest way into the compound, which is important. We've got a potential hostage situation."

"Yeah, yeah," he grumbled, fitting his own hood onto his head. "Like this is my first hostage situation."

A hand rested on his shoulder. "I'm serious," Kim said. "I need you focused." Her fingers connected their gaze. "We do this like professionals, Ron. Professionals keep frosty, no matter how hot it gets." A wry twist entered her voice as she added, "That means keeping feelings in check."

His eyes crinkled inside of the mask. "Professionals also get paid," he said.

Kim lowered a set of scanner goggles over her eyes, completing the transformation. The voice that escaped the lower half of her mask came in a smart, businesslike clip: "Don't get technical on me," she said.

* * *

The door creaked open, allowing a tired, smiling Missus Possible into her home. Cool, conditioned air poured into her as she closed the door behind her, easing the fatigue that creaked in her joints. The twilight behind her set her ginger hair ablaze through the door's window as she said, "Hi, honey." 

Her husband stood watch over the simmering pots on the stove. He traded kisses with her before she tossed her jacket across the table and collapsed into a chair. "Kids all right?" he asked her, stirring a pot of red sauce.

"Fine," she said, rubbing her eyes, "Aside from your typical case of teenage drama." Her chair creaked in tune with her joints as she leaned back and groaned. "What I wouldn't give for a cure for that. What a day."

A smirk lit Mister Possible's face, and then soured as he tasted his marinara. "How long did it take them to sneak out of the hospital?" he asked.

"There weren't gone until late this afternoon. They're probably halfway around the globe by now, doing God knows what." She chortled. "Does it make us good parents or bad parents that we can predict her spurts of insanity?"

Mister Possible wiped his hands, then his tongue, on his apron. "You know that daughter of yours," he said, untying the apron and tossing it aside. He took the seat behind his wife. "Heaven forbid that she or Ron stay in the hospital until they're healthy enough to leave." Moans of content answered him as he worked the kinks from her shoulders with strong hands. "She won't be happy until she's run herself into an early grave, or turned us both gray."

Missus Possible turned in her seat with brow ascended. "That daughter of 'mine?'" she asked.

He nodded. "When she's stubborn or crazy, absolutely. She gets that from your side, you know. I swear I get a new wrinkle every time she changes continents." Leaning forward, he planted a kiss on her neck, and murmured, "Still, I suppose it's part of why I love you both so much."

"Well, aren't you the most backhanded sweet-talker." She smirked, turning her head to kiss him in earnest.

Mister Possible gave her hand a squeeze as it brushed his cheek. "Help me with the sauce?" he pleaded. "I think it's well on its way to becoming a total disaster."

"Sure."

He dove into the newspaper while his wife rummaged through their spice rack to save his wreck of a sauce. The sports page masked his worry as he asked in his best, casual tone, "So, where did Kimmie jet off to this time?"

"Adventure and excitement," groused a voice from the kitchen door as it pushed open, allowing Tim through.

"Without us," added Jim, a step behind Tim, and with identical misery hung on his face. The twins hunkered up to the table slowly, weighed down by the same unforgivable hurt. Jim folded his arms onto the tabletop and buried his chin in them. "It's not fair," he said. "We're part of the team now, too."

Tim barked an embittered laugh and laid his head next to his brother's. "Not to Little Miss Perfect," he said. "She treats us like we're a couple of kids. We're fifteen years old."

"In two months," their mother pointed out.

"Whatever," they harmonized.

Jim pulled a sleek, black device from his pocket and ran it through his hands. "We didn't find out they were gone until we tried visiting them at the hospital. Turns out, they were already halfway over the Pacific without so much as a 'hey, guys.'" Then he tossed the device onto the table with a snort. "Some team."

The Timmunicator soon joined its twin on the table, tossed by an indifferent Tim. "She probably just had Wade whip these up to keep us quiet," he grumbled. "A consolation prize for her bitty baby brothers for saving the day, like, four times."

"Well, maybe you boys can help your mother put a fruit salad together instead," their father suggested from behind his paper. "I see you already have plenty of sour grapes. See what else you can dig out of the fridge."

"Daaad!"

Missus Possible scoffed. "He's only teasing, boys," she assured them, dumping a teaspoon of rosemary into the marinara. "And I'm sure Kim just doesn't want you getting hurt. That happens to be something I agree with." She prepared herself for her sons' rebuttal, but never got the chance, for a knock at the door paused them in mid-argument. "Who could that be?" she murmured, shuffling to the door.

As she opened the door, she started back, surprised to see the handsome face standing on their stoop. "Good evening, Missus Possible," the young caller said. He gave her a square-jawed smile, and said, "You might not remember me. It's been a few years now."

"Why, Erik," said Missus Possible, hastily adopting a grin of her own, "Of course I remember you. Won't you come in?"

She stepped aside, disappearing behind the door. Erik's grin doubled as he followed. "I'd love to," he said.

* * *

Two shadows descended in gravity's arms, streaking in tandem from the midday sun into a Romanesque cradle dotting the vast Pacific. Cracked marble archways flew past, their gilded linings flaked and peeling. The air around them howled with speed, but their ears turned deaf to the warning, and their goggled eyes, blind to all but the flat expanse of shattered tile and cobbling that rushed up at them. 

This time, no floating sentries lurked in the air to oppose them. The droids all lay shattered on the ground below, mixed into the scattered remains of their companion cannons, and the architecture they had devastated. No roaming patrols of red-clad guards circled the bases of the broken buildings below. No sensors remained to detect them, and even if they did, no sensors existed to pierce the veil of the complex technology wrapped tight around their athletic forms.

They touched down lightly, landing in a crouch. Kim could feel the ground beneath them ripple as the suit dissipated her landing's force beneath her. The HUD inside her goggles flickered and then flashed red with an error message: the Inelastic Generator would not work again, and had fried many of the stealth systems connected to it. Kim glanced over, seeing that Ron had landed safely as well, and gave thanks that the suit's technology had held out this long.

Praying for more luck, and knowing full well they'd used it all up long ago, she joined Ron in a flat sprint for the central tower of Dementor's fortress. A familiar stretch of tile loomed in front of them. Kim's goggles flashed again, painting the grid of sensors hidden underground into neon green lines. 'Not enough circuitry for Vaporization Plates,' she thought, examining the criss-crossed lines while she sprinted. 'Can't avoid them, or GJ might trip them. Their leads are going off into those bushes…'

She eyed the burnt shrubbery lining their path on either side. Her gut, and the scanner goggles, told her that the trouble lay there. "Watch the foliage," she shouted as they reached the edge of the sensor field.

Ron tossed a look to his side, watching her begin to zigzag across the cobblestone. "What the hell is foliage?" he shouted back.

The scorched shrubs rose from the ground, revealing a line of thick, squat auto-cannons tangled in their roots. Red shrapnel filled the air, belched forth by the unveiled cannons. Each angry cough brought with it a new, deadly wave that cracked and burnt the landscape at the frantic teens' feet.

Flips and jumps kept Kim a hair's breadth ahead of the superheated shrapnel. The rough ground cut into her palms as she cartwheeled around another burst and watched Ron dance his way through the barrage. After his initial yelp, he flew into a gymnastic blur, moving with such grace as to take Kim's breath away. She followed suit, tucking and twisting and folding her way across the battlefield. Their movements synchronized as they came alongside each other. They flipped in time to the cannons' thunder, each wearing a smile the other couldn't see.

Kim and Ron reached the end of the sensor field in unison. She landed in a crouch, ready for a new threat as the cannons retracted back into the ground, now robbed of their targets. Ron stuck his landing and raised his arms to an unseen crowd. Breath whispered from his mouth in imitation of cheers.

She rolled her eyes, and then unrolled them just as quickly as she caught sight of a metal blast door lowering itself over the sanctum's broken doors. Her hands shot out and snagged Ron's wrist, jerking him along in a mad dash for the waning space beneath the blast door. Yards became feet became inches as she pounded across broken stone with Ron in tow. She hurdled over a fallen strut of stone the size of a Volkswagen and slid underneath the door. Ron fluttered behind her like a human ribbon, and yelped as the blast door clanged shut barely an inch from his skirting toes.

Ron flopped to the ground, relinquished by Kim so she could scan the sanctum's dank, dilapidated interior through her goggles. A ragged breath puffed the dusty air next to his masked mouth. "Whew," he sighed. "This is a lot easier done sneakily. And at night."

"Don't celebrate yet," Kim said, taking tentative steps into the grand, high-ceilinged hall. "We still need to find Dementor, Drakken, and the rest of them. Wade said this was the hottest spot on satellite thermographics, so they're bound to be in here."

Their whispered voices echoed in the giant space, chasing their shadows across the murky, crumbling walls. The distant drip of a broken pipe timed Kim's steps down the hall, masking her approach to the inner sanctum doors at the end of the long hall. Ron, on the other hand, laced his fingers behind his cowl and skipped after her as noisily as he could.

"Quietly," she hissed, diving into the shadows.

"Like they don't know we're here," he scoffed loudly. A chunk of stone flew down the corridor ahead of them, propelled by his lazy kick. "Don't get in a tizzy. We'll get your boyfriend back."

Her churlish glare lanced through him, despite their goggles and masks. "I am not in a tizzy," she said before turning back to their cautious advance. "Now be quiet."

Scraping, shuffling steps carried Ron after her. She could almost feel the chip balanced on his shoulder as he called out, "I don't even see what the big deal is. S'not like Red Dwarf has much left in the way of security. What was there?" He began ticking his fingers: "The sky guns; gone. Pressure sensors; trounced. Door; Indiana Jones'ed." He shrugged, and set his goggled glare on the door ahead of them, daring it to open. "What's left?"

A thick metal stalk pounded the floor next to him, stopping them in their tracks. Another just like it struck at his other side, pulverizing what remained of the tile, and kicking up a cloud of dust. Two more followed it, shredding the floor behind them.

Ron looked up as his stomach sank, and stared up through the rising cloud of dust. The cold, fractal eyes of a Kill-Bot painted the cloud red. Its mandibles clicked at him with strength enough to crush a car. Beyond the bot looming over him, two more of the insect-like robots lurked high above. They screeched at the intruders, raining bits of ceiling down on Kim and Ron as they prepared to attack.

"Oh yeah," muttered Ron, backing away alongside Kim. "The ant robot things. It's all coming back to me now."

* * *

The sanctum wall burst inward. Stone and plaster rained across the shattered floor, covering untouched debris in a thick layer of flotsam. An insectoid shape pierced the white cloud of dust, squealing atop thrusters lit with blue fire, shrieking as a pair of hands yanked its antenna. 

Tile flew up on either side as the Kill-Bot plowed into the floor. The robot's angular head crumpled under the pressure of its own thrust, digging a furrow to the room's lone chair set on the far end. Its two riders clung to their antenna reins and rattled with the unwilling steed as it grinded to a halt just a few feet from the marble throne's featureless back.

Gritting her teeth, Kim gathered her legs underneath her and leapt at the Kill-Bot's electronic death-rattle. The momentum of their dying steed carried her up and over the marble throne. She corkscrewed in midair, pulling her grapnel gun from its holster. She didn't need to look to know that Ron was right behind her, already landing next to her to cover any avenues of escape she missed.

Her grapnel gun's point rested square in the throne's center as she touched down. Ron crouched at her side, pointing a sleepy mole rat at the seat's occupant. "Hold it right there, De…mentor?" She tore the hood and goggles from her head, disbelieving the sight she saw through them.

Professor Dementor was in the chair, just as she had predicted. However, she hadn't foreseen the rope coiled tightly around his thick torso, nor the length of tape splayed across his lips. Rather than controlling his remaining defenses, the tiny dictator squirmed against his bonds, a prisoner of his own chair. The rope encompassed him from shoulders to legs. A wild look entered his eyes at the teens' entrance. His squirming doubled, and muffled cries escaped the duct tape muzzle.

Ron frowned and stepped back, removing his own masking. He unconsciously used Rufus' teeth to scratch his head while he pondered the odd situation. "Now, stop me if I'm wrong," he said, oblivious to his little buddy spitting out strands of blond, "But aren't they supposed to look like this _after_ we've been here, and not _before_?"

Kim ignored his confusion, and holstered her grapnel gun. "Okay, Professor," she snapped, striding forward, "Why don't you tell us what's going on?" Her callous hand tore the tape from his mouth, heedless of the agonized howl it drew from Dementor. "Where are the rest of your comrades?"

"Do not **dare** to associate those, those, worthless bacteria with me any longer!" the diminutive scientist roared. Humiliation watered in his eyes as he tore his gaze away, gritting his teeth. "I cannot believe I was betrayed and disgraced by that blue buffoon and his mutant helpers."

Rufus leapt from Ron's grasp and gnawed at the rope binding him to the throne. Ron, in the meantime, touched a finger to his chin in thought. "A double-cross, huh? Well, that's a little…expected."

A pleading look escaped Dementor's helmet, surprising Kim. "Am I to suffer the indignity of your sidekick's mockery as well? We are adversaries, Miss Possible. Opposite sides of a noble sport. Surely you, of all people, can respect that."

The ropes relinquished Dementor, sundered by Rufus's sharp teeth. But when Dementor tried rising, Kim planted a boot in his chest and shoved him back into his chair. Fire burned in her eyes, scorching the indignation off of Dementor's face. "People have died because of you and Drakken," she growled, "So don't talk to me about the rules of our little game. It's game over for you and your little friends. Now, where are they?"

Her boot cut into his sternum, crushing the fight out of him. Dementor stared into her emerald flames, and stammered, "They…Middleton. They are in Middleton. Drakken betrayed me, and took my Entropy Cannon."

"Middleton?" muttered Ron. "Huh. We're looking for LoVE in all the wrong places." Kim cast him a withering glance. "Sorry," he replied sheepishly. "I don't mean to be funny. It just sort of happens."

Turning back, Kim demanded, "What is the Entropy Cannon? How does Drakken plan on using it?"

"I…do not know," grunted Dementor, losing breath to the pressure of Kim's boot. He squirmed, but could not escape. "He has a facility already prepared there…the others are helping him as we speak."

Before he could say more, Kim's pocket sang a four-note tune. Her hand answered the call, drawing the Kimmunicator forth and thumbing its button. Wade popped onto the screen and began speaking in a panic; _"Kim, it's a trick!"_ he cried. _"The Legion is—"_

"Already gone, we know," she said. Tossing Dementor a disgusted glare, she added, "Another wild goose chase courtesy of Drakken. Start—"

_"No!"_ he insisted, cutting her short. _"You don't understand. I just received a transmission from our informant. Here, listen."_

Wade's image vanished, replaced by a dancing green line. **_"Kim Possible,"_** the mechanical voice of their mysterious informant said, **_"You are in grave danger. Doctor Drakken has established a fortification in Middleton."_**

"Well, that sure doesn't sound good," said Ron, earning him a glare from Kim.

**_"To ensure your cooperation, he intends to ransom that which you hold most dear. The coordinates of his facility are—"_**

When Wade popped back onto the Kimmunicator screen, Kim looked at him expectantly. "Well? Where's this base?" she demanded.

_"I don't know,"_ said Wade, typing furiously on two different keyboards at once. _"The message cuts out after that. I can't…wait a minute."_ He scowled at his monitors.

"What is it?" asked Kim. She could feel Ron's eyes burning a path over her shoulder. Rufus's eyes joined in from Ron's shoulder. Even Dementor leaned in to gain a glimpse at the screen. "Wade, what's going on?"

_"Someone's trying to hack into my data stream. It's—"_

The Kimmunicator's screen split, shoving Wade's image into the lower half. Its upper half came aglow with a smug, insidious grin the color of strained blueberries, with a wicked glare glimmering above the yellowed teeth. _"Hello, Kim Possible…and sidekick,"_ Drakken added, with a nod to Ron. Shifting his beady little eyes, he spied a helmet peering in at the edge of the tiny device's camera field. _"Why, Professor. Good to see you up and about. I hope my little change in our plans hasn't tied up too much of your time."_

"You miserable—!" Dementor yowled, but was shoved aside by Kim.

_"Hope you don't mind me calling unexpectedly,"_ continued Drakken. _"But I just couldn't wait to tell you the good news. You see, I'm about to take over the world, and I wanted you to be the first to know."_

Wade glared into his monitor. His hands were already at work on his keyboards, clacking out a solution to their hacker problem. _"Just try it, pal,"_ he snapped. _"I'm already halfway into your system."_

Drakken yawned. _"And I'm about to take care of yours."_ He raised a hand into the image field, poignantly pointing his finger before he brought it down out of view again. _"Boop!"_ he sang.

The baleful look on Wade's round face became one of horror. His fingers doubled their efforts. _"What the…no. No, you can't!"_ Wade cried. Through the tiny image, Kim could see smoke pouring from the seams in his monitors. His picture began to de-resolve, becoming pixilated and choppy. _"Kim, I can't—"_ said Wade, before he disappeared entirely in a storm of static.

"Wade? Wade!"

_"There now,"_ said Drakken, as his image expanded to fill the entire screen. _"Isn't that better? Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Rule the world."_

Kim's teeth gnashed together, biting back a dozen choice words. "What do you want, Drakken?"

His smug smile spread. _"I can't give everything away all at once, can I?"_ he said. _"But I'm sure if you and your Global Justice friends hurry back to Middleton, you'll make it in time to see my announcement to the world. I just thought I'd give you a heads-up so you wouldn't miss it."_

"I'll be there," she growled. "Count on it."

_"Oh,"_ he said, unfazed, _"That reminds me."_

The camera that captured his image flipped around, swirling the picture a moment. When the image coalesced again, it was one of a haggard figure spread eagle against a wall via four metal bonds. An angelic portrait hung beside him on the drab, otherwise-featureless wall, but Kim paid neither the wall nor the painting any mind. Instead, her eyes flew to the face of the man held prisoner. "Josh," she breathed, glad that he was still alive, and worried about what might happen to him to change that.

Drakken stepped back into frame. He pinched the cheek of his dizzy captive, tut-tutting the garbled moans that escaped Josh's lips. _"Not very responsive,"_ he lamented, and then tugged at the tie dangling from the artist's neck. _"But certainly the best dressed hostage I've ever taken."_ With a laugh, he tossed the tie back in Josh's face. _"But don't you worry. Just to make sure he's all right, I'm bringing in a doctor to take a look at him. And a rocket scientist,"_ he added with a malevolent twinkle in his eye. Then his face hardened. _"So keep your big nose out of my business, and everything will be fine."_

The screen went blank, and fell from Kim's limp grasp. Ron's lightning reflexes guided his hand to the falling Kimmunicator and saved it from smashing against the floor. He exchanged confused glances with Rufus. "Okay, the doctor I get," he said. "But why would you need a rocket scientist." Looking for answers, he guided his gaze back to Kim, asking, "What do you think, KP? KP?"

Silent shock swam in her beauty. It startled Ron, until the magnitude of her fright connected the remaining dots inside his mind. He sucked in a startled gasp of understanding even as Kim blew hers out. She shoved Dementor aside and broke into a run for the door, touching a hand to her ear. "Doctor Director, we need an emergency evac," she shouted.

_"What is it?"_ Doctor Director's voice buzzed back in her ear. _"Is Dementor—"_

"A decoy," snapped Kim. "We need to get back to Middleton, fast."

She ignored the indignant shouts Dementor belted at her from behind, as well as the GJ activity buzzing in her ear now that radio silence had been broken. Ron's echoing footfalls reached her distantly, second to the booming words of Mister Voice as his warning resurfaced from her memory.

**_'…he intends to ransom that which you hold most dear…'_**

**_'…that which you hold most dear…'_**

"Mom," she whispered. "Dad."

* * *

Erik walked through the door wearing a grin thick with malice. That grin didn't weather the blunt end of a frying pan as it swung around the far side of the door and struck him square in the face, smashing his nose back into his head and slamming him onto the ground, halfway in and out of the door. 

Missus Possible stepped around the door's edge. The pan she held smacked into her open palm, resonating through the stunned silence of the kitchen as her men flew from their seats to stand behind her. A viscous green fluid dripped from the pan's face, staining the immaculate floor. "Did you really think Kim wouldn't have told us about you, Erik?" she asked sweetly, keeping her pan at the ready.

A slurping noise accompanied his nose as it ejected from the interior of his face, resuming its former position. His eyes danced independently until he managed to unite them once more, and locked them on the matron's hateful glare. He touched at his nose, dabbing at the thin stream of limey liquid, even as he felt his leak inside his nose seal itself. The smile returned to his face. "I had hoped," he admitted cheerfully.

Mister Possible reached out, grabbing a knife from its holder on the kitchen counter. "I don't know how you came back or why you're here," he said, "And frankly, I don't care. This is our house, and you aren't welcome."

Erik's feet planted themselves on the kitchen floor. He lifted himself without the aid of his arms, rolling up with an impossible bend of his back until he stood before them. The trench coat seated on his broad shoulders shimmered and vanished, replaced at once by a red and black jumpsuit with the numbers 'Nine-Zero-One' emblazoned at its breast. "Oh, c'mon, Doctors P-Squared," he said with open hands. "Surely Kim's old beau can stop by for a little visit."

"Only one boy is allowed to call us that," snapped Missus Possible.

"And buster," added her husband, "Are you not him."

"You're right," said Erik, shrugging. "I'm much better."

Erik's arms shot forward, stretching the distance between him and the two doctors in no time at all. Impossible strength knocked the weapons from their hands and then brushed them aside as though they weighed nothing. Mister Possible flew back and landed in the table, crashing through the stained wood and landing amidst its splintery wreckage. His wife crashed into the cabinetry above the counter, and fell. Cans and jars fell from the broken cabinets, raining down on her body as she fell unconscious against the floor.

The syntho-drone nodded in satisfaction. Then his smile flew back as a chair broke over his face, knocking him through the open door and back into the yard. He flipped with the force of the blow, landing on all fours as his face reordered itself. Once back in place, his eyes shot to the open door.

Two lanky guardians filled the door frame, wearing one look of rage that challenged him to try for the door again. "You've got some lousy timing," Jim called to him, folding his arms. "Kim's not here right now."

"Yeah," Tim added, crossing his own arms. "But we'd be happy to show you what the rest of Team Possible can do to one pretty boy."

Erik wiped a ribbon of green from his chin. His smile grew. "So the little brothers are all grown up," he called. "Okay, toddlers. Show me."

The syntho-drone charged the door, still wearing his enigmatic smile. His fists leapt forward, propelled once more by arms that stretched to impossible lengths. This time the twins were ready for such tactics; they ducked the punches and grabbed hold of Erik's elongated wrists, swinging his arms over their shoulders. Erik flew past them as they knelt down, flying on the force of his own strength into the opposite wall of the kitchen.

Jim and Tim released his flopping arms, watching the drone disappear through a hole in the wall. Drywall and two-by-four fell after him through the collapsing breach in the wall. "Hicka bicka boo!" crowed Tim, trading high-fives with his brother.

"Hoo sha!" Jim replied.

A gloved hand stretched from the hole with lightning speed, shaping itself into a sharpened point that shot between the twins. It knocked Jim aside like a rag doll, and then whipped into Tim's face. A long gash opened beneath its point, eliciting a howl from the teen before a second hand emerged from the hole to shove him back against the sink.

Erik climbed through the hole on his knees while his distant hands held Tim in place against the counter. He marched toward his opponent, grinning while his arms slurped and compacted back into their normal length. The deadly point of his hand dug into Tim's chin while the teen whimpered. Blood dribbled from his cheek into the sink below.

"Look at this," said Erik. He thumbed the nasty cut on Tim's cheek, renewing the boy's sobs. With a nasty smile, he leaned into Tim's face and said, "I guess you aren't twins anymore."

Grabbing Tim by the face, Erik twisted around and flung the boy into his brother, who was only now rising to help. The twins crashed into a heap on the floor, falling unconscious in a tangle of limbs against the far wall.

Erik sighed in satisfaction, reverting his extremities to their normal proportions. He brushed his hands clean of dust, and then strode about the kitchen, gathering up the fallen Mister and Missus Possible and slinging them under his arms. The jumpsuit stretched across his brawny frame sparkled and became a trench coat once more. Taking one last look around, Erik remarked, "I love what you've done with the place, Missus P. Very chic. Shall we?" And he strode out the door with a tiny chuckle, paying the moaning heap behind him no mind.

**To Be Continued**


	11. Together

_All-Purpose Disclaimer_

(1) According to the Surgeon General, readers should not drink Kim Possible during homework because of the risk of academic failure. (2) Consumption of Kim Possible impairs your ability to accept reality or operate machinery, and may cause laughter or tears. Contains sulfites. Read responsibly.

* * *

_"It's all about the balance."_

_Kim caught herself holding her breath, and forced herself to pull air into her tight chest. The gasp overran her hearing, taking from her the sound of Ron's footsteps, which heightened her anxiety. Sweat rolled from her brow into the red kerchief tied 'round her eyes. She felt powerless and helpless, and she hated it. "You love this, don't you?" she called out, not certain of which direction to face._

_His steps slowed, then disappeared, leaving the empty Training Room in the Rec Center deathly silent. Worse was the knowledge that Ron was still moving; he just wasn't letting her hear him anymore. "Talking isn't balance," he chided her. His voice wound its way around her with a mirthful lilt. "Now get that breathing under control."_

_She allowed herself another irritated gasp before steadying her breath. "Okay," she said sightlessly, "I'm ready." Dead air answered back. "Ron?" she called, tilting her head. Apprehension tingled in her stomach again. She forced it down deep, but it would not be smothered. Turning in a slow circle, she tried and failed to find even the tiniest sign of his presence. "Ron, this isn't funny. I'm not going to—"_

_A blow struck Kim on the back of the head. She lashed out with a hook kick, catching nothing but air. Desperate, she ducked down and swept her leg out in a full circle. Again, nothing. When she rose up, head darting about for some sign of her target, rough hands shoved her at the shoulder blades, knocking her onto her face._

_"Pretty quick," said Ron as she peeled her lips from the mat. "I could smell your foot on that kick. I think they make powders for stuff like that."_

_Kim pushed herself onto her knees. When she yanked the blindfold down, she had a glare already prepped for the blond grinning behind her. "That so wasn't funny, Ron" she snapped. Her glare remained constant despite his helping hand as she rose to her feet. She smoothed the wrinkles of her gi, saying, "I didn't ask you to show me some moves so you could slap me around."_

_"No," he countered, folding his arms. "You wanted me to show you some moves so you could start showing me up at our Saturday matches." When Kim blushed, his smile became smug. Ron waggled a finger at her, and said, "KP, I can read you like a book. No secrets from me."_

_Now she adopted a smug look. "You'd be surprised," she muttered. The knotted kerchief fought her fumbling fingers as she freed it from around her neck. "So why don't you stop groping me and start teaching me?" she said, and tossed him the cloth._

_Ron fumbled for the cloth, turning an identical shade of red. He rolled it into a blindfold once more. The friendly browns of his eyes vanished behind its crimson folds while Kim circled him. The loss of his sight didn't trouble his smile. He remained in a loose stance, bobbing on the balls of his feet, and tilting his head so that his hair fell in the most adorable manner._

_Kim banished thoughts of Ron's cuteness and replaced them with recollections of everything he had ever taught her about stealth. Her breathing became ghostly. Her footfalls disappeared. The rustle of her clothes vanished into her smooth, graceful movement._

_The tilt of his head deepened. So too did his adorability. "Oh, you're getting good," Ron called out as she circled behind him. "I can't even hear you. Give yourself a round of applause."_

_As Kim completed her circle, she watched his smirk grow. A retort rose to her lips, so she bit it back. She leapt forward with fists curled and every intention of wiping that smirk from his face. 'Ron may be good,' she thought, 'But nobody beats Kim Possible blindfolded.'_

_Ron fell away beneath her punch by bending forward. That infuriating smile of his remained as he rolled out of the way of Kim's follow-up kick. Her foot chased him, stomping the mat in his wake. She smothered her curse, only to lose it when Ron's feet scissored and caught her knee. More cursing followed her down to the floor, culminating in a rushing grunt as she struck the mat again._

_"Okay," she grumbled, "Fine." When she looked up to his helping hand, she couldn't quell the rush of irritation that came to her upon seeing the smile that lay beyond the hand. "I know you didn't hear me, because I'm awesome. So how did you do that?"_

_He hoisted her up to his waiting grin. "How did I find you, or how did I beat you?"_

_"Both," she said, disgusted._

_Still blindfolded, he swept his hand out in a mock bow. "I just do what every woman wants her man to do: I pay attention." A protest sprouted on Kim's lips, but he silenced it with a gesture. "Oh, you're quiet. And you're quick. But when you step," he told her, lifting his feet, "I can feel it through the floor. I can feel the air move when you do." Waggling his brows, he added, "And I can smell your perfume moving around me."_

_"Perv," she teased, still irritated. "That still doesn't explain—"_

_"You're top drawer, KP, but you have one weakness; you're still KP." At her quizzical silence, he shrugged, and said, "You have a pretty distinct fighting style, Kim. And that's not what my Kung Fu is about." He bobbed and punched, demonstrating. "It's all about unpredictability. When you throw a punch, I'm nowhere near it. Next punch? Maybe I'm under it. Or on top of it." Stepping dangerously close, he added, "Or maybe I'm already past it."_

_Kim cocked a brow at his hovering lips. "Really."_

_She punched. Ron cried, "Monkey Grip!" and slid back, catching her fist with knuckled palms. Kim squalled as he twisted his whole body, forcing her to spin with him or lose the use of her elbow permanently. Spinning upside down and into the air, Kim lost her wind as she slammed onto the mat._

_Twinkling brown peeked at Kim as Ron lifted the edge of his blindfold. "See?"_

_"So Tai Shing Pek Kwar is all about the wacky hi-jinx," she groaned, letting her head flop back to the floor._

_He shook his head. "That's mostly Ron-style. It used to drive Sensei nuts."_

_Kim grimaced. "I know the feeling."_

_"Knock it all you like, mat-kisser," he said with hands on hips, "But one of us is standing thanks to the power of unpredictability._

_A wicked smile possessed Kim's lips. "Sounds like potent stuff," she said._

_Kim's legs swept out, knocking him onto his butt. Ron yelped and shrieked as she rolled atop him, poking and tickling him into red-faced submission. They tumbled across the floor, forgetting their training for the moment in a flood of impromptu laughter._

* * *

**Kim Possible  
The Power of Friendship**

_by Cyberwraith9_

* * *

Kim's nose all but pressed against the angled glass of the hover jet's tinted canopy. Dark, foreboding clouds rushed beneath the rattling craft as it ran from the sunset, its engines taxed and screaming, its fuselage straining at the bolts. It still wasn't fast enough for her. "How long?" she demanded.

Grimacing, Doctor Director clutched tighter on the control yoke. "Thirty seconds less than the last ETA you asked me for," she snapped. "Now sit down before turbulence cracks your head against that glass."

Strong hands rested on Kim's shoulders, snapping her scowl around to startle Ron's gentle expression. "KP, we're almost there," he said. "C'mon." Heavy shadows sat on his face in the darkened cockpit. They made his crinkled eyes bright.

Unwilling, Kim still let him draw her back into the seat at Doctor Director's side. She gnashed her teeth and fought to hold onto the fierce ball of anger that tore her insides apart. It she lost that, the overwhelming panic that lay beneath it would break free and destroy her. Kim felt grateful for Ron's care, but had no time for it. She chased his hands away and snapped, "I'm fine. You should be trying to call Wade. We need the sitch."

Ron's Kimmunicator dangled in his grasp, spitting static from its miniscule screen. "I've tried every five minutes for the last hour," he said. "Like it or not, Wade's offline."

"We have to do something," Kim said, wrapping her fists in her chair's straps. "Anything." She refused to be powerless. Now not. Her eyes squeezed shut as she clutched the straps tighter and felt the angry ball shred through her.

Ron's hands returned, clasping her trembling fists. "Hey," he murmured, drawing her eyes into his. "Remember what you told me? We gotta stay frosty, now matter how hot it gets." When she looked away, he squeezed her hands. "Kim?"

Her throat tightened, choking her words; "I've saved dozens of perfect strangers," she whispered. Ice haunted her eyes. "What good is it if I can't even help my own family?"

"Don't be stupid," he said, melting her eyes with shock. "It's more like 'thousands' of strangers. And your family's going to be fine."

"Ron," she sighed, rubbing her face, "I just—"

"'Just' nothing," Ron hissed in a low voice. Leaning close, he muttered, "You won't let anything happen to them, and we both know it. God knows you've saved me more than once." That pulled a grudging smile out of her misery, which he echoed. "Right?" he prodded.

Kim wiped at her eyes. "Thanks, Ron. It's just…hard, not knowing."

He nodded. "I know. It sucks. That's why we're going to plant seven different flavors of boot up Drakken's ass."

The stars outside the canopy vanished into a haze as their craft dipped into the clouds. A moment later, a carpet of twinkling lights replaced them, spread out below in a three-tiered set of cities. Doctor Director broke the teens' whispered conversation with clipped tones, saying, "The Tri-City area is directly below us. Strap in for landing."

As Ron strapped in behind Kim, she heard four musical notes from her utility belt that filled her with hope. She tore the Kimmunicator from her belt so fast that its clips broke off. "Wade," she cried, thumbing the central button furiously. "Wade?"

Static hissed at her from the device, heedless of her demanding thumb. She scowled, and then looked over in surprise as the same musical call sang from Ron's belt. A curious look crossed between them before he pulled his own Kimmunicator free and activated it. The same static greeted him. "Wrong number?" he mused aloud.

Kim drew in a breath to veto his theory, but held it as the primary monitor on the hover jet's controls lit up. All three of the cockpit's passengers turned to watch as more static appeared on the screen. That static quickly faded into a thick, scarred smile framed by greasy black hair, and adorned with rodent-like eyes that held a glimmer of mad triumph Kim knew all too well. Glancing down, Kim caught sight of that same face in her and Ron's Kimmunicators.

_"Greetings, world,"_ the televised Doctor Drakken said. _"Sorry to preempt your regularly scheduled network dreck, but I have some important news that I think you'll want to hear."_

"Not the prettiest face on television," said Ron, leaning forward. "But I still like him better than Ray Romano." Kim shushed him.

The screen's image switched to a map, depicting the Tri-City area in cheery greens and golds. Devoid of his visage, Drakken's voice continued unhampered. _"Here we see the sleepy little bergs of Middleton, Lowerton, and Upperton. Not the most important cities in the world, I'll admit, but they do contain certain things of value. Half a million innocent little people between the three of them, for instance."_

Kim worked the controls of her versatile little device, bringing online the tracking software Wade had loaded into it. Its micronized hardware began backtracking the signal Drakken forced into it. "Keep talking, sicko," she said. "I've got your number."

_"Now, you might be asking yourself, 'What is he going to do to all those poor people?' And the answer?"_ His smile returned to the screen. _"Nothing. I have no desire to hurt anyone, innocent or otherwise. Which is why I strongly urge the United States government to grant me my request: Prepare a payment of ten billion dollars in gold bullion for delivery in the next two hours."_

"He's insane," said Doctor Director, scowling at the screen.

Ron scoffed. "Yeah, we got that part," he said.

_"This is usually the time when I would tell you what will happen if the gold isn't delivered as I've asked. But that's a rut I've treat for far too long. So I think I'll show you instead." _

Kim's eyes darted up from her efforts. Her stomach flipped at the steady sneer Drakken broadcasted to them as his image panned back, revealing an elaborate series of controls set before him. His fingers danced across buttons and levers while his eyes remained on his audience.

_"Local law enforcement doesn't worry me,"_ he said in an eerily casual tone, working his evil upon the controls, _"But that secret Global Justice facility buried in the lower east end of Middleton is a bit troubling. Let's see what we can do about that, shall we?"_

Doctor Director mashed her palm against a large red button on the controls marked with the word 'PANIC.' "This is Unit Alpha to all units: Code Red! Code Red! Emergency Evac, now." Static razzed her from the speaker. "Middleton Facility, do you read? Respond!"

Breathlessness burned in Kim's lungs as she stared out the tinted glass. She searched the skyline for a flash of light, a telltale buildup of villainous ray technology. The rational part of her mind prepared to track Drakken's cannon back to its source, even while her heart leapt into her throat. But that flash never came. If Kim hadn't known where to look, she never would have noticed the short string of lights winking out at Middleton's edge far below them.

To the teens, the missing lights meant little. But the blanching sickness that spread through Doctor Director's face said enough. Still, Drakken would not be stopped; _"There now. That was relatively painless."_ His face darkened, and his cheery voice dropped. _"But don't mistake my mercy for weakness. Ten billion dollars. You have two hours. Ciao."_

Kim looked back to Doctor Director as Drakken's face fizzled off the screens. She watched the spymaster switch the monitor off with slow, numbed movements that startled Kim more than any grand display of force could have. "Middleton Facility," she said again, "Report."

The nose of their hover jet dipped, leading them down toward the freshly darkened patch of Middleton. As they descended, Kim felt a hand slide atop hers, which gripped her armrest tighter than she'd realized. She glanced back to tell Ron off for treating her like a scared little girl. Her brief anger evaporated when she saw the fright written into his freckles. Their eyes met for an instant, and then turned back outside the canopy. Kim flipped her hand over and laced his fingers into hers without a word.

Their craft swooped back to Earth on nimble thrusters, taking them into the city. Middleton's suburban homes flickered past, thinning out as they flew to the city's edge. Spotlights shone from the hover jet's underbelly. The stark circles of light danced across rooftops beneath three expectant sets of eyes. "Maybe it's nothing," Ron suggested in a shaky voice. "It could be a bluff. I don't—"

The rest of his hopes flew back into his mouth as he gasped; the landscape beneath them became flat and bare, brown, and smooth like glass. There was no rubble. There were no fires. Only a channel of empty, lifeless earth remained, widening as they flew on.

Doctor Director slowed their craft. Her pale face twisted. "That's a lot of nothing," she said bitterly.

"All those people," murmured Kim.

"This part of town is low-traffic and unpopulated," said Doctor Director. "That's why we chose it for our facility. There shouldn't have been many people caught in the blast."

Ron's hand tightened on Kim's. "That doesn't sound like 'none' to me," he said.

The dancing spotlights converged on a large crater in the glossy brown. Their hover jet floated above the hole, peering down into its boxy edges. Metal gleamed back at them beneath the bright light. "Middleton Facility," Doctor Director said, pressing the comm control again, "Please respond. Please."

More static. Then, just as the spymaster's face slipped, they heard, _"—or Dire—or, d—ead me?"_ Hope returned to the cockpit as Doctor Director adjusted the radio. _"Doctor Director, come in. This is Middleton Facility Kappa—"_

"What's your situation?" said Doctor Director, shattering protocol. "Are you all right down there?"

They could almost hear the agent on the other end sag with relief. _"We're in it pretty bad, ma'am. Power's out. Whatever that scar face hit us with, it knocked out our systems and backups. Top three levels are gone, armor and all, like they weren't ever there to begin with."_

Hesitating only a moment, the spymaster asked, "Casualties?"

"Light," the agent replied. "We got as many people as far underground as we could with the warning. We…couldn't get everyone."

"Stand by." Doctor Director muted the comm and swiveled her chair around. Her eye burned with furious fatigue. "I need to see to my people. I don't know what kind of resources we have to work with…" Her brows crushed down, darkening her intent. "But I promise you, there is no way I'm letting Drakken get away with this."

Kim's expression matched hers. "Get us as close to my house as you can afford to," she said.

That burning eye darted to Kim. "I know that look, Possible. I invented that look. You are not going in there alone, understood?"

This time, Kim's hand squeezed Ron's. "I didn't plan to," she said.

* * *

Drakken's smile persisted as the red light on the camera winked out. He gave a nod to the henchman behind it, and then turned to gaze with satisfaction at the clockwork operation of his new lair. Henchmen worked side-by-side with a new batch of syntho-drones to finish the conversion of the sprawling, bi-leveled center. His procured cannon hung in the middle, stretching the height of both floors and then some to protrude out the high domed ceiling.

Muffled protests guided Drakken and his wandering gaze back to the wall, where a young man hung from uncomfortable bonds next to a portrait of his crafting. Drakken tore the tape from his hostage's mouth, and said, "Terribly sorry, young man. Can I offer you some refreshments? Perhaps some chocolate milk?"

"You sick psycho!" yowled Josh, struggling against his bonds.

Hurt furrowed Drakken's brow. "What? Personally, I don't think there's a problem out there that a little cocoa-moo can't make better."

Josh leaned forward, stretching himself into Drakken's smiling face. "I don't know what your game is, dude," he snarled, "But Kim Possible is going to kick the blue right out of you."

Drakken's brow quirked. "Is that right?" he asked.

"Yeah," Josh shot back. "She'll ride in here, fists blazing, and knock you and all your little sidekicks flat. All you've done is give me a front-row seat. And I can't wait to see her show up to take you down."

The venom in Josh's expression drained away as Drakken chortled. "Neither can I," he said.

Drakken turned on his heel and strolled across the expansive floor. He wound his way beneath the Entropy Cannon, mindful of the sparks that showered from his minions' tools as they prepped it for its final mission. Gleeful thoughts of watching Middleton evaporate into inert gasses put a skip in his step. At his point, the ten billion dollars would be a bonus if it arrived in time, and no great loss if it didn't, so long as his threat brought to him his _real_ prize.

He reached a small collection of offices kept on the far side of the shanghaied complex. Their occupants were downstairs, kept under lock and key with his other prisoners, leaving him with his pick of the litter. "You may as well stop skulking about," he called to the empty air as he opened an office door. "People might mistake you for a common criminal."

Pale green fury melted from the shadows. "I should sock you one right here and now," Shego grumbled. "Knock that ugly little smirk right off your chin."

That ugly little smirk stayed strong, defying Shego's irritation as Drakken flashed it back at her. He wandered into the spacious office, collecting dust on his finger from the trophies and curios littered about its shelves. "But if you did that," he said, and reached into his lab coat, "You might never have gotten this."

Shego pounced on the small, serrated microchip sitting in his hand. She snatched it with deft fingers and examined it in the sputtering fluorescent lighting. "This is it?" she asked, holding it close to her eye. The tiny tines encircling its edge glinted. "This is that thing that'll let me fight like the Princess?"

He nodded. "I call it 'The Emulator Chip.' Ah-ah-ah!" he cried, as Shego lifted her hair to plant it on her neck. "It has a limited operating time. Only use it when it counts."

Shego dropped the device into a utility pouch at her waist. All the while, she gave the distracted Drakken a strange look. He sauntered about with cheshire patience, eventually coming to rest in the chair behind the office's desk. "Okay, fine," she snapped. "You win. I give up. What's the deal?"

"What's the deal with what?" asked Drakken airily.

Helpless, frantic gestures from Shego did little to help him understand. "This! This whole, 'crafty, evil genius' deal you've got going on. You haven't made a bad joke or drawn a hand turkey in weeks. Your plan not only makes sense, but it's actually working. You even have hostages as insurance. Good ones!" Shego curled her fingers, clutching for answers that wouldn't come. "What's going on?"

The dreamy expression on Drakken's face drifted away. He looked at her instead with contemplative curiosity. "How old are you, Shego? Late twenties? You've got to be pushing thirty after all these years."

"Watch it," she growled.

He nodded. "Whereas I am quite a ways past that three-oh hurdle. I've been at this for years, Shego, and I'm only getting older. And what has kept me from my dream of global conquest? A little girl."

He lifted a snow globe from the desk, peering into the tiny Middleton replica through its perpetual winter. If he squinted hard enough, he could almost make out that tiny two-story sitting in the middle of those drab, identical suburban homes. Looking hard, he imagined a tiny, redheaded meddler standing atop that roof, taunting him with waving arms and rude gestures.

"A Midwestern teenager," he said, scowling at the miniscule figure inside the tiny globe. "A cheerleader…barely out of her training bra. A—"

"I get it," said Shego impatiently. "Possible. Whatever. So?"

The globe trembled in his claw. "Kim Possible was beating me since she was fifteen. Now she's hitting her prime. And her sidekick is some kind of ninja now. And those brothers of hers have started pitching in, making for one, big happy family that thwarts my plans, that makes a fool out of me at every turn, that **mocks** me. ME!"

Drakken hurled the globe against the far wall, making Shego jump back. The tiny, snowy city shattered and oozed down the wall, leaving a trail of sparkling tears as it wept its way to the floor.

Shooting to his feet, Drakken stole the snide comment out of Shego's mouth with a wild look. "It ends tonight, one way or another. I refuse to tolerate a world with that strawberry tart in it." Scowling, he told her, "All you have to do is keep your sassy mouth shut, put the Emulator Chip on when the time comes, and kill Kim Possible. Is that perfectly all right, or do you need to say something sarcastic before we continue?"

Shego stared at her heaving, wide-eyed employer. No," she said in a stunned voice. "No, that'll be fine." She knew she should probably be hurting him, but Drakken had never spoken to her like that before. It was only natural to be caught off-guard.

"Good," he snapped. "Just make certain you're ready. It won't be long now."

He stalked out of the room without another word. Shego stood speechless in his wake. Frowning, she pulled his Emulator Chip out of its pouch. All the skill and instinct of her worst enemy sat in her palm, just waiting for her to call upon them.

The anger welling in her breast fell away as she stared at the chip. "Drakken can have his world," she said, sneering after her testy boss. Clenching the chip, she said, "I've already got everything I need."

* * *

The door of her childhood home splintered beneath her boot as Kim barreled through its empty frame into the darkened kitchen. Panic thrust her hand to the wall's switch, shedding light on the disaster scene. Upon sight of the smashed cabinets and table, the scattered chairs, the crusting dinner spread across the floor, she wished she could turn the lights off and plunge back into that fearful unknown. Anything would have been better than seeing her house like this.

"Mom?" she called in a squeak. "Dad?"

Ron burst through the door, puffing. His cooler head spotted a heap of limbs tangled on the kitchen floor before Kim did. "KP," he called to her, and rushed over. Kim was but a step behind as he dropped and skated across debris to the fallen pair. Nimble fingers pressed to their necks, detecting a synchronized set of pulses that filled Ron with relief. He rolled them apart, hovering over Tim while Kim tended to his opposite. "C'mon, buddy," pleaded Ron, gently slapping Tim's unmarred cheek. "You're okay. You're okay. C'mon."

Jim awoke first to his sister's insistent shake. His eyes fluttered open, and he moaned. "I must be having a nightmare," he mumbled, watching Kim tear up. "I see my sister in a sexy, skintight jumpsuit."

The tears were chased from Kim's eyes as both her brothers roused. "Ron, get the first aid kit from under the sink and do what you can with Tim." She leapt from the floor and sprinted into the dining room.

"But—"

"Just do it!" she snapped over her shoulder.

Glad though she was for her brothers' safety, she could not escape the memory of Drakken's veiled threat. Her rogues' gallery had threatened friends and family before, but always when Kim had been there to protect them, or to rescue them in the nick of time. Now, her time had been nicked in a globetrotting goose chase, and her family as well, all by the same hand.

As disastrous as the kitchen had been, worse still for Kim was seeing the rest of the house in its unperturbed state. The attack had been quick, merciless, and perfect. Her parents hadn't gotten the chance to fight back as they would have in any of Drakken's other sloppy plans. "Mom! Dad!" she cried, knowing full well they wouldn't answer. She ran from room to room, crying out their names, until Ron's insistent calls pulled her back to the ruins of the kitchen.

"They aren't here," said Ron. He knelt by the twins, who sat on the floor and collected their consciousness one groan at a time. Water, glassed, changed from Ron's hands to theirs, and rushed down their throats in greedy gulps. Looking back at Kim, Ron said slowly, "They were taken." His face was stern, but his eyes held a plea that only Kim would notice. They begged for her composure as clearly as any words could: 'We need you. Now. Strong.'

Immediately, Kim thrust her heart into her bottommost depths. "It was fast," she stammered, clearing her throat. "They were in an out in a matter of minutes." She ran a hand across the broken face of the cabinets. "What happened?" she asked.

Tim touched at his face, wincing as his fingers grazed the deep cut. "Your old boyfriend happened," he said.

Rufus slapped his hand away from the cut, and then dove into the open first aid kit sitting between the boys. Ron watched idly, engrossed in thought. "So Drakken brainwashed Josh," he said, while Rufus came out of the extensive kit with a butterfly patch. "Do I dare hope to live my dream of beating the hell out of Kim's…" He trailed off at Kim's reproachful look, and said, "What was out loud, wasn't it?"

"Not Joshy," coughed Jim, while his brother whimpered at Rufus's administrations. "The other one."

Kim and Ron stopped dead. Each aimed a shocked expression of horror at the other as they ran through the gamut of Kim's old boyfriends in their heads. "Please," said Ron, "Please tell me you're talking about Brick Flagg."

"It was Erik," Tim mumbled dully, trying not to flinch as Rufus pressed the butterfly patch into his cheek. "He did this."

Ron shook his head. "Nuh-uh," he said, trading glances with Rufus. "No way. Rufus popped that balloon way back when. He's dried-out snot by now." He paused, struck by unusual inspiration, and then struck himself on the forehead. "Unless GJ soaked the snot up and put it into lockdown. Gross! …and disheartening," came the afterthought. Turning, he asked, "KP, what do we—"

The furious beacon Kim's face had become cut Ron to the quick. Her pale skin glowed red , and her fists trembled at her side. Her jaw, clenched, did likewise, unable to open for fear of the fiery words she held back. When at last she could speak again, she did so in a slow, controlled tone. "Find some mission clothes," she told Ron, staring at a fixed spot between them. "Find whatever you can, and then get ready. Drakken's going down."

"You might need something better than those old togs."

The voice pulled everyone's eyes off of Kim and to the doorway. When Kim turned, she felt some of the darkness lift from her soul at the sight of two familiar faces. Her friends stumbled into the kitchen, the shorter of the two leaning on the prettier of them. "You're alive," Kim murmured, gazing at Wade's exhausted, soot-smudged face. Looking to Wade's living crutch, she added, "You came."

Monique grunted as she helped Wade into one of the remaining kitchen chairs. "I got a call from our resident cutie-pie here," she explained. "Found him smoldering on a park bench three blocks from his house with that." She nodded to the briefcase clutched in Wade's hand. "We figured you'd come here, seeing as how your apartment got barbecued and all."

A look passed between Kim and Monique, imperceptible to the men in the room. Kim offered her a curt nod, and then looked to Wade as he groaned again. "Everything I had," he grunted, fingering the lock on his briefcase. "Years of research, gigs of scrimped and scammed data, all down the tubes." He looked up at Kim's apologetic expression, and he laughed bitterly. "Being a hero can suck, huh?" he asked with quivering jowls.

"Wade," pleaded Kim, "My parents are—"

"We know," said Monique, cutting her off in a dark voice. "Wade managed to capture Drakken's signal and piggyback it to my thingy." She held her Kimmunicator aloft, clutched in her hands with a new understanding of the burden that came with it. "It recorded the rest of Blueberry's fruity rant. Even managed to collect some telemetry data from the signal." Monique licked her thumb and swiped at the stubborn soot on Wade's face. All she managed was to smudge the mess on his cheek, though it did bring him a smile and a blush. "Not bad for a genius still mired in puberty."

New hope sprung into Kim's heart. She drew her own Kimmunicator and tossed it to Wade, who fumbled with it as she said, "I took a read on his signal during his grand announcement. See if you can triangulate. I want to know where I can kick some mad scientist ass."

"Where 'we' can kick some ass," Ron amended for her.

Monique cocked a brow. "You aren't waiting for GJ backup?"

"How did you…" Kim caught sight of Wade's knowing smile, and rolled her eyes at her own question. Even scorched and deprived of his mainframe, Wade remained a master of all information. "No," she announced. "Ron and I will head out just as soon as Wade gives us a location."

Jim scowled. "Without backup?"

Tim added, "Without Wade online?"

"You'll be toast," they decided in harmony.

Kim looked to Ron, and knew what his answer would be. "Your old gear should still be in the spare bedroom," she told him. "Five minutes to suit up, and then we're gone."

"We should probably figure out a ride," Ron answered. Then, thoughtful, he added, "I hope my old stuff still fits. I've been working my pecs for a while now." He flexed, earning himself the wry look from Kim he had hoped for, as well as a tiny chortle from Monique. Now more than ever, Kim needed his humor, even more than she needed him serious. It kept her sane, and they both knew it.

"Actually," said Wade, breaking Kim's and Ron's gaze, "I thought you might want something a little classier than your old mission togs." The briefcase at his feet flipped onto his lap, lofted by enthusiasm Wade drew from this moment of renewed resolve. His fat thumb spun the lock at its handle. "It's a special occasion," he said, brightening at the lock's obedient click. Opening the case with a flourish, he told his team, "And you have to dress for success."

Kim caught one look at the smooth, glistening fabric folded neatly to fit the briefcase's interior and felt a headache arise. "Not another one," she groaned. "Absolutely not. After what happened last time?"

A broken snicker shot her green glare sideways. "I remember that," he said, chortling. "In Guatemala, when Colonel Calamitous was breeding killer peppers. The battle suit shorted out, and started contracting, and he got away, and you were being crushed to death, so I had to cut you out of the suit, and you had to ride home na—" Kim's look threatened to burn a hole through him, and so he backed away and rubbed his neck. "Um, maybe that story's not appropriate at the moment. You were saying, Wade?"

"Ho," Rufus moaned from Ron's shoulder, and rolled his beady little eyes.

Wade plucked up the black material by its red trim. "The prototype may not have worked in the long run," he admitted, "But the Battle Suit Two-Point-Oh is a guaranteed winner. It's self-repairing, bulletproof, stain resistant, and comes with all your standard crime-fighting accessories built in."

She squinted at the suit, noting the craftsmanship put into her stylized initials emblazoned in its breast. "You're positive?" she asked. The memory of being picked up from a failed mission in her birthday suit, and enduring Ron's ceaseless teasing for months after, would not be shaken so easily.

An apologetic look replaced Wade's pride. "Kim, you're gonna need every advantage you can get," he said.

Thoughts of her parents, of the people that had fallen in the wake of Drakken's mad pursuits, and of all the people who might yet suffer, conquered Kim's lingering doubts. "Sold," she said, offering Wade a tiny smile to hide her massive apprehension.

Ron sputtered openly and miserably. "Great," he said, meaning anything but. "Another battle suit for KP. She flies, and Ron dies."

"Maybe," said Wade. He lifted Kim's battle suit out of the briefcase, revealing a second stack of gleaming black fabric. This one was trimmed in gold, and featured the letters 'R' and 'S' in the same swooshing style that Kim's suit had. "Or maybe you'll let me get to the part where they come in men's sizes," Wade chided.

"My own battle suit?" Ron pushed past Kim and yanked it out of the case, holding it up to his body for size. The suit unfurled to match his body's outline perfectly. Its golden trim ran along each arm, and divided the torso into three sections. His logo'd initials gleamed in the kitchen light, bringing a theatrical tear to Ron's eye. "This would be so cool," he said with a sniff, "If I probably wasn't gonna die in it."

Rufus, in the meantime, had leapt from Ron's shoulder and clung to the fabric with his charcoal talons. Scampering about, the tiny mole rat found an extra pocket that Kim's suit lacked, placed at the side of the thigh. It was just the right size, and featured a flap with a latch that could be operated by rodent-sized claws. "Mwoah, cozy," he noted approvingly.

Wade grinned. "You think it's cool now," he said. "Just wait until I tell you about Battle Mode."

* * *

Kim's eyes circled her old loft in a listless path, taking in the furniture, the posters, the knick-knacks, the photos, and the thousand other pieces of paraphernalia she had left behind. It felt as though a whole lifetime had passed since she had moved out, instead of ten short months. There, undressed and afraid, she felt her old belongings judging the woman she had become. Part of her wondered if there was anything left of the Kim this room had nurtured. She had lost a great deal of herself in the last year, and changed so much more.

"So," came a casual voice from the young woman seated on Kim's bed, "Seems like you and Ron are on speaking terms again." Monique fiddled with the folds of Kim's old mission uniform draped across the bed on its hanger to avoid Kim's naked form. "That's always good when you're about to charge headlong into a giant death trap."

"Yup," she replied, equally cool. Reaching down, Kim began to work the battle suit onto her body. Its folds stretched taut at her tug, fitting perfectly with her curvy hips and tiny waist.

"I'm not surprised," Monique continued. She pretended to pluck a piece of lint from Kim's old crop top with rapt diligence, thinking that Kim's keen eyes would miss the worried glance she gave her friend through the vanity mirror. "You two are so crazy about each other—"

"We're still just friends," interrupted Kim. She slipped her arms and shoulders into the suit. Even faced away from Monique, she could sense the shock on her face. "As a matter of fact, he's thinking about leaving after this mission. He wants to give Josh and me some space while we reconnect."

Kim imagined hearing a rusty squeak to accompany the drop in Monique's jaw. But Monique composed herself in a flash, and said, "And what did you say? Just in case someone else is interested in any juicy Team Possible gossip."

After smothering her smile, Kim replied, "I said that'd be okay."

All pretenses shattered on Monique's face, broken by her blundering look of shock. "You WHAT?"

"I can't force him to stay," said Kim, shrugging her chest into the battle suit while her zipper growled its way to her collar. "If leaving will make him happy, I'll give him the best sendoff I can, and try not to miss him too much." She turned at last, gracing Monique's thunderstruck gape with a knowing nod. "See, this friend tried to tell me something about my screwed-up relationship with Ron. I could try to control what happens, or I could flip-flop forever, or I could try to ignore it until it eats me inside out. But the only thing that matters is how I feel about him. If I know that, everything else will fall into place."

"And do you?" asked Monique. "Know, I mean."

Kim smiled. "I thought we both already knew that."

Monique rose from the bed, tentatively returning Kim's smile. "This friend of yours sounds pretty smart, she said coyly. "I'll bet she's hot, too."

"Maybe," admitted Kim, standing her ground while Monique approached. Indulgently, she added, "But she's kind of bitchy at one o'clock in the morning. And she hits like a girl."

The two women leapt into each other's arms, each gasping with the force of the other's embrace. Their cheeks met and their eyes closed as they sighed, relieved that their friendship had weathered the nasty fight. "I'm sorry," whispered Monique.

"I'm sorry too," Kim whispered back. "I am so lucky to have you, Monique."

"Ditto, girl. Ditto."

Pulling away, Kim adopted a faux-stern expression. "But if you ever slap me again," she said, "Don't expect to get that hand back."

Monique laughed. "I was surprised when it came back the first time," she admitted. Then she stepped back to give Kim's outfit an appraising eye. The fashion queen gave Wade's design an approving nod, and motioned for Kim to rotate. "Fits nice across the chest," she decided. "And it makes your butt look sexy."

Kim had to giggle, despite herself. "Always a plus when fighting super villains," she said dryly.

Gravity pulled at Monique's delicate features, strangling Kim's mirth. "Kim, I am seriously scared for you," she admitted. "You could really get hurt. These guys aren't playing anymore."

"I know," agreed Kim. "And neither am I."

"Are you sure you wanna leave all this stuff between you and Ron…I mean, you might not…"

Kim saved Monique from finishing the troublesome thought. "We both need to stay focused," she said. Then, softly, she continued, "And I have to believe that there'll be an 'after' to sort this all out in. Just like I have to believe Ron can forgive me for what I have to do."

* * *

"I will never forgive you."

Ron Stoppable stood in the darkened guest room of the Possible home, pulling his battle suit up over his waist. Stern anger lurked in his freckles, aimed at a blank spot on the wall; he dared not look at the object of his scorn seated on the bed for fear of losing his cool.

"I just wanted to make that crystal clear," he continued, working his wiry arms into the suit's sleeves. "Y'know, get it off my chest before I cannonball into my untimely doom. I think it's important to settle accounts, especially when there's as much history as we have together."

As his fingers clasped the suit's zipper, he paused in reflection. Years' worth of bitter memories surfaced in his mind—images of pain, of humiliation, of frustration and helplessness. He hated feeling all of those things, and the source of it all sat idly on the bed, not making a peep. Well, he would have his peace of mind, with or without permission.

Ron yanked the zipper to his collar. The seam it ran along began melding together, knit by fantastic technology that Ron couldn't begin to fathom (and that Wade assured him wouldn't backfire and would let him out when he desired so). "As a matter of fact," said Ron, "You have a lot to answer for. You've jerked me around, and you've made me look like a fool, just so you could feel good about yourself." Ron's scowl deepened as he said, "You make me sick."

The gloves and boots came next, melding to the suit in the same manner as the zipper had vanished. Now complete, his suit pulsed with power, tingling along the golden veins that trimmed its seams. So emboldened was Ron with the power of his new suit that he mustered the courage to turn and face his tormentor.

"It's taken me years to realize it," he said, glaring through the dark. No reaction came from beneath his nemesis's gleaming red cap, making Ron falter a moment. But that same silence angered him enough to return his conviction. "But now I know," he continued, "That I'm not the stupid kid I used to be. I'm a stupid adult now, and I'm a lot stronger now than I was with you. The truth is, I don't need you anymore. And it feels good." Stepping forward, Ron watched as his tormentor shrank in his presence, becoming small, afraid, and insignificant. "After all these years," Ron said with a sneer, "I just have one thing to say to you…"

A knock came from the bedroom door. Kim's voice filtered through from the other side: "Ron, are you ready?" her muffled voice asked. "We have to go."

"Just a sec, KP." Ron rubbed his wrists, the spot where (once again, guaranteed by Wade) the suit's nano-reconstruction technology would adapt and fire a climbing cable capable of supporting his weight. He reached out and grasped his old tormentor by its glossy red. It swung in his grasp, powerless. Holding the old grapnel gun to his face, Ron said smugly, "Let's see you rip my pants off now, you son of a bitch."

He tossed the gun back onto the bed with a sniff, and then strode out of the room with a proud strut, checking the door closed behind him with his hip. Kim waited in the hall with foot-tapping impatience and garb nearly identical to his, save for the crimson trim and monogrammed breast. Hands on hips, she eyed her partner and his new confidence. Approval lit her eyes. "Looks good on you," she said.

Her compliment filled his chest. "The man makes the clothes," he told her.

"Ready?" she asked, descending the stairs.

"Not even a little," quipped Ron, falling into step without missing a beat.

Kim and Ron rumbled down the steps side by side, leaving humor behind them in the halls and rooms they had played in as children. They struck the first floor with hardened faces and hearts to match. Then Kim's scowl deepened at the sight of the pair blocking their way through the front door. "Get out of those clothes," she said, reddening with anger, "And get out of the way."

Tim tugged the cuff of his tight black jersey into place. The belt keeping his dark cargo pants aloft sagged with a bounty of old equipment. Kim guessed there to be years' worth of swiped mission gear around his waist, with an equal share of ill-gotten goods heaped around his twin. The square patch on his cheek puffed with his indignant look. "Up yours," he said flatly.

"I don't think so," snapped Kim.

She moved forward, leaving a helpless Ron in the lurch, and raised a hand to shove her injured brother aside. Halfway there, Jim stepped between them. He knocked her arm aside with a callous shove, matching Tim's glare. "He said 'Up yours,' Kim," Jim said, folding his arms. "We're going."

"No, you aren't," said Kim. "Ron and I can't afford to baby-sit a couple of amateurs right now."

"You pulled Ron's butt out of the fire for years," retorted Jim.

Tim added, "And we're way more useful than he used to be!"

"Hey!" Ron stepped forward, full of bluster. But faced with three sets of Possible fury, he stopped, paused, and said, "Okay, point. Jerks."

"You're not helping," Kim said to him. Then she turned back, sucking in a deep breath. Air whistled through her teeth until her mouth became a tight, straight line. "Look," she said evenly, "This isn't like last time. This isn't like any other time. We don't have a plan. We don't have a target. We don't know what we're up against. This isn't going to end well, and I don't want you anywhere near it." Kim lowered her voice, and placed her hands on her brothers' shoulders. "Please try to understand. I couldn't live with myself if anything happened to you."

Silence thundered. Jim and Tim trembled beneath her touch, glaring at their older sister. Tension grew between them, threatening to blow up in Kim's face, until Ron piped in, "Now I want to stay behind," just loud enough for Kim to hear.

"Seems to me like you shouldn't be turning down any help you can get," Monique called from the top of the staircase. All eyes swung up to the top step, where the shapely teen strode down, wearing familiar togs that made Kim's mouth dry. "What is it with you and your stupid belly button?" she griped, tugging Kim's old crop top lower over her taut stomach. The hem leapt back up in defiance, settling beneath her breasts.

Kim scowled and rubbed her face at the three mission-garbed rookies. "Guys, I'm serious. This is—"

Monique's hand leapt into Kim's face, halting her words with a gesture. "Yeah, yeah," she said, "Certain death, no hope, blah, blah, blah. I'm terrified, okay? So let's go save your folks already."

"And the world," the twins harmonized.

"Right, that too," she amended.

A soft chuckle interrupted Kim's apoplectic frustration. She shot her glare back to Ron, who laughed into his glove. At her silent accusation, he shrugged. "Don't look at me," he told her, weathering her anger as he always did. "I was fine and dandy with kicking back and watching cartoons seven years ago. You were the one that launched that stupid website, so don't get mad at me if your heroic-ness is catchy."

"It's a good thing, too," a haggard voice interrupted from the hall. Wade leaned heavily against the wall, cradling Kimmunicators in his other hand. A triumphant look lurked amidst his fatigue. "We'll need all the heroes we can get."

"We have a location?" asked Kim, forcing business back into her voice.

He nodded. "The Mount Trinity Observatory." Wade tossed Kim the blue Kimmunicator, and thumbed a button on Monique's. Images leapt into the air from its tiny projector, flat pictures that rotated to let them all have a glimpse. Within their glowing confines, a giant white dome sat halfway up Mount Trinity. Tiny red dots lurched about its exterior, and knotted Kim's stomach as the image zoomed in. "The place is crawling with henchmen and syntho-drones," he said. Then switching the image, he added, "The cannon is set up in place of the telescope. And we've got a little over an hour before Drakken's deadline ends."

Kim glanced back, looking at the faces of those she loved. As her gaze wandered between them, she felt her heart go out to her team's rookies, and the naked fear they wore. But as they caught her eye, they each gave her a nod, and Kim knew they would not be reasoned with. She couldn't blame them; as she recalled, a certain redheaded tween had felt just as they did.

Then her wandering eye spotted an odd look on Ron's face. He studied the rotating picture with unusual focus. Under her worried gaze, his face split into a grin. A chuckle haunted his chest, pulling everyone's attention away from certain doom to him. Even Rufus emerged from his new pocket, curious at what could possibly be funny.

"Ron…" said Kim worriedly.

"This is so cool," he said. Laughing softly, he leaned forward until his nose dipped into the spinning picture's edge. "I mean, I never get to come up with the plans. But now…" He chuckled again, leaning back. "I mean, it's like it's just coming to me. So cool."

"Ron…" muttered Tim.

"..with a plan…" muttered Jim.

Monique groaned into her hands. "Now I'm really scared."

Kim laid a hand on Ron's shoulder, trying her best to emulate his unusual smile. But a second later, his smile fell, replaced with heartbreak. "What is it?" she asked him.

"Sorry," he muttered distractedly. "Like I said, it's all just sort of coming to me. And I just got to the part where I have to make the ultimate sacrifice." With a sad look to Kim, he added, "It's gonna suck. But what choice do we have?"

**To Be Continued**


	12. Charge

_All-Purpose Disclaimer_

Kim Possible is a registered trademark of Disney, Inc. All rights, properties, and themes are retained therein. Any use of copyrighted material is done so without profit, and falls within the boundary of Fair Use law. All original ideas and concepts contained in the following work are the creative property of its author, and are not to be used without prior and express permission.

What? You were expecting something funny?

* * *

_The doorbell hadn't finished its cheery jingle before the Stoppables' front door jerked open. Kimmie started back as a worried Norwegian countenance appeared around the door's edge, followed close by arms that ushered her in before she could stammer out a hello._

_"Oh, thank you for coming so quickly, Kim," Missus Stoppable muttered, pushing Kimmie through the hall and into the kitchen. She nearly knocked Kimmie over when the girl tried to stop to remove her shoes. "We're in an awful bind."_

_Kimmie eyeballed her best friend's mother with trepidation. It was strange enough that she hadn't heard from Ronnie since his homecoming. But to be invited over by Missus Stoppable, and not Ronnie? "I, uh, I'll help any way I can, Missus Stoppable."_

_Spicy air greeted the women as they entered the kitchen. Kimmie's curiosity grew when she saw Ron's father moping at the table with a Bueno Nacho bag at his elbow. He perked up at the sight of the redhead, enough so to pull his head from the tabletop. "She's here. Thank goodness," he muttered._

_"We're sorry to put you out," said Missus Stoppable, interrupting Kimmie's question, "But we don't know what else to do."_

_"You see, Ron just got back from camp the day before yesterday," Mister Stoppable explained._

_"He was supposed to meet me at Bueno Nacho and tell me all about it," Kimmie blurted, afraid of being interrupted again. "He never showed."_

_The uncomfortable look that crossed between the adults pushed Kimmie's curiosity into full-fledged worry. "Ron had a…rough time at camp," Mister Stoppable explained. He rubbed the back of his neck and looked down. "When he started calling us daily, begging to come home, I…well, I figured he was just homesick."_

_Tears dribbled from Missus Stoppable's eyes. "He locked himself in his room as soon as he came home," she sobbed. "He won't come down. Not for us, not for meals…"_

_"We think he's sneaking down at night to raid the fridge," said Mister Stoppable. "So at least he's not starving." The silver lining failed to quell his wife's muted wails, so he turned to Kimmie with a pleading look. "Kim, please," he said, sliding the pungent bag of Mexican food her way. "Lord knows Ron doesn't listen to us, but he always seems to listen to you."_

_"Please," Missus Stoppable sniveled, dabbing her eyes, "Please fix my baby boy."_

_Kimmie took the bag, using it to mask the odd look she gave the adults. She slipped out of the room without further comment and made for the stairs. The trip to Ronnie's room brought new and terrifying possibilities with each step. By the time she reached his door, she wondered if he'd still have arms._

_"Ron?" called Kimmie. Her knuckles rapped against the floral print on his door. "Ron, I know you're in there. Can I come in?" When no answer came, she rustled the bag near his keyhole. "I brought some burritos."_

_She could hear his mouth watering through the door. One long moment of indecision later, she heard a meek, "Come in."_

_The door squeaked at Kimmie's entrance into the darkened room. She stepped over the headless corpse of a stuffed monkey, shutting the door behind her, and picked her way across the cluttered floor. The drapes were drawn tight. When Kimmie reached for a lamp, a terrible clamor rose up from the tent of sheets sitting atop Ronnie's bed. "Don't! I…prefer the dark."_

_"Oh-kay," said Kimmie, lowering her hand. She sat at the edge of the bed, near the mouth of the tent. As soon as she let the bag of burritos drift too close, a hand shot out of the tent flap and snatched it away from her. "So what's the deal with Camp Naptime here?" she asked the tent over the sound of its scarfing._

_A belch rattled its sheets. Empty wrappers tumbled out the flap on a putrid wind before Kimmie heard him say, "I'm not comin' out, so don't even bother."_

_Kimmie fanned the noxious odor away. "I just wanted to know why you're in there," she said. Manufacturing her best hurt tone, she added, "It must be pretty important to blow off your bee-eff-eff over."_

_Her syrupy words played Ronnie with practiced care. "Sorry, KP," he said mournfully. "I just…I can't go out there. I can't."_

_"Why? Did a bear maul your face, or something?" Kimmie tugged at the hem of his tent, only to have her hands slapped away and her efforts negated. The tent clutched itself shut from the inside with every intent to stay that way. "C'mon, Ron. Whatever it is, it can't be that bad."_

_"It?" A bitter laugh shook his tent. "If it was just an 'it,' I'd be fine. No, my naïve young friend," he said, missing the roll of Kimmie's eyes, "It was 'they.' Or 'them.' I dunno, I got a 'D' in English. But it was a lot of stuff!"_

_"Ron…"_

_The tent flap shrunk from her entreating hand. She thought she saw a flash of bloodshot brown in its gap, but the color came and went too fleetingly to be certain. "Wannaweep showed me a lot, KP. It taught me that only the strong survive in that big, scary world out there." In a small voice, he added, "And I'm not strong enough."_

_Kimmie gave up trying to pry the bed sheets open. "Ron, you're being stupid," she said. "You're plenty strong. Now quit cowering in your bed!"_

_"Oh, it's easy for you," Ronnie's dismembered voice shot. "You're brave, and popular, and smart, an' pretty too. You can do anything. I can't."_

_She blinked. "You think I'm pretty?" she asked._

_Ronnie balked, shaking the bed with his squirming. "No. Maybe. Shut up." With a sigh, he said, "Look, the point is, I just can't go out there. The world lives to pick off small fries like me, so I'm just going to hide here until the world goes away, m'kay?"_

_Kimmie tapped her chin, lost in thought. "So, let me get this straight. You think I've got something you don't, and that means you can't come out of your bed." Pausing to let it all sink in, she decided, "That's dumb."_

_"Rub it in, why don'cha."_

_A deep sigh rattled her chest. "Okay, fine. I'll tell you what; How about you hang around me until you feel like it's safe enough to go outside again." She felt ridiculous, but if it would get him to come out…_

_Time trudged by in tedious ticks as Ronnie's tent pondered her offer silently. At long last, his trembling voice emerged to ask, "You won't…you won't let anything happen to me? 'Cause there's a lot of…"_

_The thick fear in his voice melted the cynicism iced around Kimmie's heart. She laid her hand next to the flap and leaned close. "Stick with me, Ron. Whatever it is you think you need, I've got enough for the both of us."_

_Another long pause came and went. "Okay," he stammered. "I'm comin' out."_

_Kimmie readied her most dazzling smile as the tent rustled and collapsed around Ronnie. That smile dissolved into pure horror upon first sight of what remained of her best friend. "Holy crap!" she cried without thinking._

_Ronnie scratched at his puffy, lumpy, beet-red skin where the thick white bandages covering him would allow. Bug bites littered his body in such droves that they easily outnumbered his freckles. If not for the wiry, cowlicked blond scrub at his crown, Kim might have mistaken him for a half-mummified Elephant Man._

_"That bad?" Ronnie asked miserably. Poking at the bandages on his neck, he said, "The monkey bites were the worst. I had to get rabies shots."_

_'Monkey bites?' thought Kimmie, forcing the shock off of her features. "N-no," she said, sliding back. "You can hardly rash…I mean, tell."_

_"Thanks," he said, scratching. Though his voice was wry, his eyes melted like brown butter. "And thanks, KP," he said again, more sincere this time._

_She pressed him back when he tried to wrap his arms around her. "No big," she assured him. "Now, let's go find you some ointment…a lot of ointment."_

* * *

**Kim Possible  
The Power of Friendship**

_by Cyberwraith9_

* * *

The bars of her hastily-erected cell did nothing to protect Missus Possible from the hateful eyes burning into her body, making her feel injured and unclean at the same time. She, like her husband, and the rest of the scientists and personnel caught in the observatory during Drakken's attack, had nowhere to go. The two perpendicular rows of bars kept them trapped in a corner of the facility's storage basement with no toilet, no beds, or features of any kind. They simply milled about like cattle under those hateful eyes, which now traveled up and down Missus Possible's slim figure.

"Ach, you're quite a catch for a woman o' your years," Duff Killigan said. The thick red bush beneath his leer split into a wicked smile. "It's easy t' see where th' wee lass gets her looks from." The driver gripped in his hand tapped rhythmically into his open palm.

Mister Possible stepped up behind his wife, glaring at the golfer as he gripped her shoulders. "That 'wee lass' is going to knock the stuffing out of you, mister," he snapped. "And I'll thank you not to give my wife backhanded compliments."

"James," Missus Possible whispered, patting his hand. "It's all right. I'll handle this." The soft gaze she comforted her husband with became a tempest of dark aqua, rimmed with a ginger scowl. "My daughter is on her way right now to pound the daylights out of you and your hairy knuckle-dragger friend," she shot at him. The temperature in the cell dropped ten degrees as she added, "And if you set one toe in this cell in the meantime, I'll kick you so hard, you'll have to wait for a second puberty if you ever want them to drop again."

Killigan brayed with laughter right in her face while her husband goggled her with wide, shocked eyes. "Oh, tha's a firebrand you got there," he told Mister Possible. "I'll bet she's a real feisty one in—"

"Killigan," a regal voice called from across the basement, "Cease your useless prattle. That woman will silence you before I even get the chance."

A sour look spoiled Killigan's smile. He rattled the bars of the cage with his driver one last time before waddling across the room to Monkey Fist and his circle of disciples. Their meditative ring had bored Killigan for hours, and showed no signs of stopping. "Ach," groaned the golfer, "Can I nae have a wee bit o' fun? You an' your flea-bitten lemurs just sit there while Drakken an' the scary lass have all th' fun upstairs. We're stuck in th' basement, an' all you can do is chant over those smelly ol' rocks."

The artifacts in question sat atop the open Tome of the Phantom Monkey, twinkling in the weak florescent light. Monkey Fist's loving hands had strung fragments of the Jade Idols onto the Pendant of the Monkey King. A clunky necklace, it sat atop the ancient tome, whose words rippled like living water.

"These 'smelly rocks' hold more power than a thousand of those brutish bludgeons of yours," said Monkey Fist. He opened his eyes long enough to sneer at the artillery strung from Killigan's waist and back, and then returned his closed-eye concentration to the ancient power in his lotus'd lap. "Patience would serve you well, Scotsman."

Killigan laughed. "You an' yours have sat and chanted around those bauble for days now. What makes you think—"

Light cut Killigan to the quick, flaring to life from the hand-lettered pages of the book to bathe his disbelief in the color of blood. Eyes closed, Monkey Fist smiled, basking in his efforts. His monkey ninjas hooted and shrieked as the text swirled around the necklace in a blur of red. More text surfaced from pages beneath as the spinning words siphoned into the necklace, whirling faster and faster, kicking up an unnatural wind that threatened to knock the cap from Killigan's head.

In an instant eternity, the last of the words flew into the necklace, leaving the ancient tome barren. Fist's necklace glowed softly as he lifted it from the blank pages, its green now crimson. "The powers are one. The union is complete. And with it," he said, gazing in awe upon his handiwork, "My transformation into the true Monkey Master."

"Really?" asked Killigan, eyeballing the lumpy necklace. "Well, slap it on, an' let's see wha' all the fuss is about."

Monkey Fist yanked the necklace away from his grubby touch. "Such an event is not meant to be tawdry entertainment, Golfer. When the moment comes…"

The walkie-talkie at Killigan's waist squawked, and said in Drakken's voice, _"Killigan! Fist! I do believe we have some uninvited guests. All ninjas report upstairs for a reception. All golfers should remain to keep an eye on our prisoners."_

Disappointment sagged in Killigan's beard while Fist and his entourage rose from the floor. "I's no' fair," he said to their backs. "You get t' rumble with th' lass an' her dippit while I baby-sit?"

In the lead, Monkey Fist paused at the foot of the stairs. He looked back with a curious humor, and said, "If you were Kim Possible, and you were storming our gates, would you be thinking of anything else besides getting your parents back?"

The thought brightened Killigan's outlook. "You jus' might have someth'n' there, Hairball."

"Farewell, Scotsman," said Monkey Fist. He rolled his eyes after turning back to the stairs to start his ascent.

* * *

The Observatory possessed a state-of-the-art security system to start with, complete with watchful cameras whose electronic eyes saw all inside or out of the tall, domed complex. Under its new, evil administration, more cameras had been added to watch the service road, the only access to the mountain-dwelling building.

The complex's new administrator stood in its security office, watching on monitors what those new cameras saw. It was hard to make out through the haze of a fresh rain, but there in black and white, a motorcycle raced up the dirt road, carrying with it two passengers. Helmeted and clad in black riding suits, they clung to their bouncing steed as it burned a straight path up the steep and treacherous road. The sight of the riders made the 'administrator' smile.

"Well, well," crowed Drakken, "Perhaps our gold is being delivered by some special messengers?"

Shego glared at the televised duo from her place at Drakken's side. The sight of the shapelier rider at the bike's rear made her bandaged nose ache. "Yeah. Motorcycles and teenage vigilantes handle gold transfers all the time." She glanced left and right, suppressing a shudder at the soulless syntho-drones stuffed into the security room with them. "You want me to take some of your overgrown action figures and meet them outside?"

"No need," said Drakken, turning away from the monitors. He swept out of the room, followed close by Shego and the drones. "I have a surprise or two for her before she gets to the front door. Tell Fist and his little helper monkeys to wait for them there, and then join me up by the Cannon." More quietly, he added, "Let's just see what she plans to do."

* * *

The two riders leaned forward on their bike, tinted visors glued to the building a few hundred yards ahead. Though they bobbed with every bounce of the road, their hands and feet stuck fast to their ride. Clouds above rained fat, heavy drops upon their approach in great sheets, soaking and slicking the slope beneath them, and caused their bike to swerve.

From the rocks that lined the road rose opposing rows of syntho-drones, their outlines haloed in the rain. Dark staffs flipped in unison in their grasps, alighted at their ends with deadly plasma. Taking aim, the syntho-drones peppered the pair and their cycle with blazing bolts of red.

The brave black bike and its riders swerved between the bolts. Jets of steam leapt from the ground wherever the shots went wide, joining with the mud thrown into the air in the bike's wake. Despite its dodging, the plucky motorcycle took several hits to its fuselage. Its charge faltered, and it skidded a moment, smoking. In its hesitation, two more shots holed its pilot. The wounds smoldered before the heavy rain smothered their infant flames.

Its course now erratic, the motorcycle veered through fresh mud toward the double doors of the Observatory's entrance. Several more shots struck the listing cycle. Flames leapt from the back and spread to engulf both riders. Emboldened by their success, the syntho-drones abandoned their cover and charged after their target, pouring plasma fire into it as it careened through the glass doors.

A razor cloud surrounded the riders as their flaming bike soared into the lobby. They were cut from their seats, tumbling free. Their bike flew into the empty greeting desk and exploded. Fire and splinters set the air ablaze, activating the sprinklers.

The syntho-drones burst through the ruined doors. More of their kind poured out from the halls, all toting the same plasma staffs. They trained their weapons on the unmoving riders, whose bodies sprawled next to each other at unnatural angles. Neither of them breathed.

One of the crimson-clad drones stepped forward and knelt to the deadened rider whose suit was striped with red. The drone slid the visor of the monogrammed helmet back, eager to watch the spark of life fade from Kim Possible's eyes. Its cruel core felt a wave of surprise to discover a digital counter where her face should have been.

_"Thanks for playing, villain dudes," _the unified voices of the Possible twins sang, while the counter ran to zero. _"You're the victim of a Team Possible hoax. Ka-ba-boom!"_

The motionless riders swelled and burst, filling the lobby with wall-to-wall fire. Two dozen syntho-drones faded from sight in the intense conflagration. Thunder shook the room apart, spreading the flames in a brief, intense shockwave that tore into whatever it touched. The building quaked and settled, and fell quiet.

What remained of the lobby was covered in a thick layer of charcoal. The blackness curdled from the walls and ceiling as two battle-suited figures picked their way through the entrance. Glass, flotsam, and crystallized syntho-goo crunched underfoot. The shapelier of the two knelt and plucked a fragment of her old helmet, gazing upon her scorched initials as the device in her hand spoke.

_"Everything's okay on this end, Kim,"_ Wade's voice assured her. _"Though your computer could stand for some upgrades."_

"It's my 'old' computer," she reminded him. "I had a better one, until Monkey Fist blew up my apartment.

_"Oh. Right,"_ he said, chagrined.

She shook her head, surveying the damage. "Do the best you can. We're signing off here. Tell the others to give us about ten, maybe fifteen minutes. By that time, Drakken should have all of his focus on us. If he doesn't already…" she added in a mutter, stepping aside as a piece of smoldering ceiling came loose.

_"Will do. Good luck, guys."_

The channel clicked closed as Wade signed off, leaving the two of them on their own. Kim hooked her Kimmunicator back to her belt, still eyeing the scorched helmet fragment. "Not a half-bad plan, Ron," she said, chucking the fragment aside. "And the tweebs did a great job rigging up the remote control for the bike. I am a little freaked at how quick they made those explosives, though," she admitted. When no answer came, she swung her eyes around. "Ron?"

Ron stood over the slagged remains of his beloved motorcycle. His head hung low as he clutched his Kimmunicator-made-remote tight. Tears threatened his eyes as he knelt before his ultimate sacrifice. His grief was so great that he didn't notice Kim until her hand clasped his shoulder. "It was a good bike," he said, sniffing. Rufus crawled from his pocket, offering him a handkerchief. "Thanks, buddy," he muttered, blowing his nose. "In a lot of ways," he confessed, "I think it's what made me cool."

Kim shook her head and helped him back to his feet. "The bike didn't make you cool, Ron," she told him with a pat on the back. "It was the other way around." At his red, puffy look, she smirked, and said, "Okay, maybe it made you a little cooler."

He blew his nose again, and handed Rufus the handkerchief, who let it drop to the floor in disgust. Running a hand across his cowlick, he sniffed, and said, "Okay. Tender moment's over. What's next?"

"A crushing defeat, I'd say." Monkey Fist leaned in the doorway leading deeper into the observatory. The hairy, robed warrior strode forth with his hands draped behind his back and a sick look of triumph on his thuggish face. The hall behind him teemed with spandex'd simians. They hooted as they swarmed out around their master and surrounded the heroes, brandishing bare hands hardened for striking.

The duo stood back to back as the dozen little warriors circled them. Kim prepared herself for a spectacular martial arts battle. Her dazzling, midair windmill kick died prematurely when Ron grabbed her wrist. "Kim," he said loud enough so that both she and their enemies could hear, "Get upstairs and stop that cannon thing."

"Um, Ron," said Kim, eyeing the brutish monkeys, "How am I supposed to make it upstairs without fighting these bozos?"

"Yes, Stoppable," Monkey Fist said, more amused than anything. "Pray tell, why should I let the little hero pass?"

Ron returned his rival's smile in kind. "Three reasons," he said.

Kim glanced back. "You weren't about to count your 'awesomeness' as a reason, were you?"

"Two reasons," said Ron. "One, because we both agree that I'm crap at defusing doomsday weapons big and small." His eyes locked with Monkey Fist's, and his smile grew. "And two," he continued in a low voice, "Monkey Fist isn't going to waste an ounce of energy on you while he has me to kick around."

Fist rubbed at his chin, shocking Kim with his honest consideration. "An interesting proposal, Pretender," admitted the rogue. "But this strawberry tart has caused me a great deal of grief over the years. Why shouldn't I take care of her now that I have the chance?"

The situation dissolved into utter lunacy in Kim's eyes as Ron spread his palms. "C'mon, Chunky Fist. Ordinary teen hero," he said, gesturing to Kim, and then to himself. "Or the pride and joy of Yamanouchi? Seriously, fighting both of us at once will just be annoying, and you know you wanna kick the crap out of me."

"C'mon!" Rufus taunted from Ron's pocket.

A moment passed in tense stillness with the two teens under Fist's thoughtful gaze. Then, with ponderous steps, he shuffled aside and swept his arm out, alighting the way. "Down the hall, stairwell's the third door on the left. Two flights up to the observation deck. Miss Possible only," he added darkly.

Kim looked first to the hairy villain, and then to her stone-faced partner. The monkey perimeter around them broke and parted for her expectantly. "Ron?" she murmured.

A glance passed between them, filled with things yet unsaid. One last, lingering look of longing escaped Ron's eyes before they became as hard as the rest of his expression. "Good luck," he whispered. "Kick some ass."

"You too." She gave him a nod. Then, moving slowly, Kim walked through the passage made by her enemies.

As she passed Monkey Fist, she looked back at Ron one last time. Ron stared intently at his rival. Though his eyes did not meet hers again, Kim did see a thumbs-up meant for her. Satisfied, she turned back and took off down the hall at a fast clip, trusting Ron to take care of the rest.

Ron watched Kim jog from his peripheral, keeping his eyes trained on Monkey Fist. His stomach unclenched as she disappeared, though the rest of him remained tense. "I have to admit, I'm kind of surprised," he said.

"I'll kill her in due time," Monkey Fist assured him. "Kim Possible has caused me too much grief to just let her go. But for the moment…" His sneer returned as he raised his fingers. With a single snap, his statuesque ninjas leapt into action, plunging Ron into deadly combat.

* * *

Kim exited the stairwell onto the main observatory floor. Darkness reigned in the unlit cavern of tile, defied only by city light reflected from the clouds. Kim caught sight of shapes dancing in the shadows, but never in the same place twice, and never long enough to follow them. Pale outlines of astronomical equipment wavered in the dark, springing out with each flash of lightning. Hanging at the center of the complex was the Entropy Cannon, a two-story technological terror that could be extended through a retractable ceiling on a pivoting frame to target all of Middleton.

_"Greetings, Kim Possible,"_ Drakken's voice boomed. Kim tried tracking the echo without success. Her best guess put him on the upper level, a platform ringed around the interior of the dome from which minions could maintenance the massive cannon. _"Welcome to your doom. Did you find everything to your liking?"_

"What I'd like to find are my mom and dad, Drakken," Kim shot back. The retort bounded back from the high ceiling, surprising Kim with its desperation. Steeling her voice, she added, "So let's forget the theatrics and get to the part where you start crying and give up."

Maniacal laughter answered her from all around, running over itself as it bounded and rebounded off the featureless walls. _"You think you're all that, Kim Possible. But are you really? If you're looking for mommy and daddy, you're barking up the wrong tree…observatory…whatever. But here's a consolation prize."_

A spotlight struck the far wall. Trapped within its confines hung a frightened, gagged young man, spread-eagle and struggling against his metal bonds. Spillover light painted a clear path for Kim to race across. Josh's eyes widened as Kim skidded to a stop in front of him. Her forceful hand tore the gag from his mouth, allowing him to cry, "It's a trap!"

She patted his cheek. "I know," she said, examining his bonds. "It's okay."

Lightning flashed in the complex, bringing to life the dancing shapes Kim had spied in the shadows. She didn't need to turn around to know about the contingent of soldiers closing in on them, but did so anyway. Quick green eyes counted a baker's dozen of syntho-drones lurching toward her, blocking any avenue of escape with their broad shoulders.

_"I do hate to drone on…"_ Drakken's echo taunted her.

Kim rolled her eyes. "Oi," she muttered to Josh. "Here come the lame jokes."

_"…but it's a little early for you to 'punch out,' isn't it?"_

As the brutish automatons drew near, Kim's feet slid into a tiger stance. Her fists curled together and rose in unison. She felt a part of herself float away, the human weakness, the worry, the angst, and the doubt. All that remained was Kim the warrior, who welcomed the battle with a dark grin.

"It's been a slice, Drakken," called Kim as she leapt forward. A combat knife flashed in her hand, drawn in mid-flight from her equipment belt in a reversed grip. She brought the blade across the lead drone's chest, slicing its leathery skin open. Green goo bubbled through the split. Kim tossed her hair back and crowed, "But I really have to cut and…run…"

Kim's bravado waned as she watched the green spillage seal and cease. _"Oh, that's right,"_ Drakken's echo said. She missed the second half of his jest, unable to hear him for the ringing in her ears as the scratched syntho-drone drove its fist into her chin. _ "—upgraded syntho-drones. Leak proof! Eat that, Kim Possible, and taste defeat. It tastes bitter, doesn't it?"_

Kim bounced off the metal wall with a grunt. She ignored Josh's frantic cries and wiped her mouth. Her brows knit together and her lips curled. "Upgrade, huh?" she said. Her fingers hovered near the monogrammed logo at her breast. After a moment's indecision, she let them drop, and pressed a control on her belt instead. "We'll save the big guns for later," she muttered.

The tips of Kim's gloves elongated into sharp tips, hardening into ten tiny daggers she brought to bear against her syntho-drone attacker and its twelve brethren. A wild look possessed her face as she darted forward, plunging her hand into the puckered split in its chest. The suit's claws tore its wound wide open and plunged deep into its viscous core. Too wide to seal, the wound gushed all over her. She watched the syntho-drone deflate, draping itself across her arm like a rubber curtain.

The other syntho-drones paused as they watched Kim shuck their slimy leader onto the floor. She resumed her stance and egged them on with a gesture from her green-covered claw. "Who's laughing now?" she called out.

She could hear the disgusted sneer in Drakken's face as he spoke. "We'll see," he echo insisted.

"Yeah," said Kim, narrowing her eyes. "We will."

* * *

A tempest of hair surrounded Ron, brushing him from all sides while he stood stock-still beneath Monkey Fist's leer. One claw came especially close, carving a ribbon of red across Ron's freckles. Ron didn't flinch, but wiped the scarlet smear from his cheek with a scowl.

"Afraid, Pretender?" jeered Monkey Fist. He cackled as his minions struck again, opening a cut on Ron's chin. "Terrified, no doubt. But who knows? If you surrender, I might give you a swift death. I'm feeling merciful today."

Ron's scowl never left Monkey Fist through the black flurry of his minions. Crimson dribbled from his chin, crossing his logo'd initials as he looked down and spied a ready wink from his pocket. "Battle Suit," he said in a deep, serious tone, "Command: Booyah."

Panels in the suit's utility belt snapped open. With the hiss of a CO2 burst, the belt spat out tiny ball bearings that struck the ground in a ring around him. The bearings burst, spilling smoke all around him and swallowing Fist's monkeys. Their shrieks became frantic in the maddening blackness of the smokescreen, giving Ron all the time in the world to step forward into clearer air.

"Rufus," he muttered, "Go play."

Howling pink fury leapt from Ron's pocket and into the smoky fray. Fist's monkey ninjas, disoriented already, were wholly unprepared for Rufus's gambit. The warrior rodent smashed into them, driving his tiny claws into them with precision and power unlike any other mole rat in existence. His body stretched to fantastic lengths to snare monkey limbs and pummel monkey faces. Disarrayed, disheartened, Fist's best warriors tumbled about with infantile cries.

Ron exited the cloud with a cape of smoke dissolving from his shoulders. "You know," said Ron with a curious cant of his head, "I just realized that you and me haven't had a real fight since my summer o' fun at Yamanouchi. Isn't that funny?"

The ruckus behind Ron puckered Fist's face. He reached into his robes and pulled out a strange, lumpy necklace. Ron didn't recognize its chunks of red stone, but he recalled the Amulet of the Monkey King dangling from its end without delay. And the faint glow surrounding the necklace gave Ron a funny tingle at the base of his skull.

"Funny?" asked Monkey Fist. "I suppose so. Everything about you is a joke."

"See, here's my theory," Ron continued, approaching his stoic foe. "You've spent years trying to get monkey this and that, but they always wind up with me…or Kim," he added, nodding at the Amulet. "The magic, the prophecy, and all that mysticism bullshit keep coming my way, and you can't stand it, 'cause it means you're the 'pretender,' not me."

Ron's smugness twisted Monkey Fist's puckered face into distilled rage. "Pretender, am I?" snarled Fist. The necklace twisted in his grasp as he jerked it up and over his head. "No, fool. I have waited for this moment all my life. I need wait no more. Bear witness to the birth of the one true Monkey Master." He touched the Amulet, and murmured, "Em Naimis Retsam, Ogaga."

The red jade encircling Fist's neck flared, driving Ron back with its crimson light. Ron flinched, squinting and shielding his eyes, trying to pry through the luminescence. Fist's glow could not be pierced, but lasted only a moment. As it faded with a snapping sound, Ron's eyes readjusted, and bore witness to what the tingle in his head was now screaming about.

Fist's robes sat 'round his feet in shreds. He no longer needed them; thick, wiry black fur covered him from head to toe, broken only by the pail, hairless flesh of his thuggish face. A ring of raised red jade was fused around his neck, ending at his collarbone with the shape of the Amulet beneath his fur. His hands and feet were larger than ever, capped with fat, reddened knuckles that cracked in anticipation as his beady eyes fell on Ron.

"What do you say, Stoppable?" said Monkey Fist in a throaty growl, gearing fangs that gleamed hungrily. His black fur rippled as he stepped forward, bare feet slapping against the tile. "Who's the Master now?"

Panic hammered through Ron's veins. He wished desperately for those latent abilities of his that Fist coveted so highly. They lay defiantly dormant, no matter how hard he concentrated, or how badly he needed them. "Okay, that's a little impressive," Ron admitted. He clamped down on his panic, standing his ground in the face of Fist's approach. "Y'know, you could probably be some kind of spokesperson for the Hair Club for Monkeys, or something."

The hairy Fist sneered. Scarlet light pulsed in his curling knuckles. "Jest all you like, Stoppable," he said. "It's time to die."

* * *

Kim threw the last draining syntho-drone onto the floor. She shook the clinging goo from her arms, and then wiped a sheen of sweat from her brow. The claws in her gloves retracted at the touch of a button. Fighting to get a handle on her ragged breath, Kim glanced around the barren observatory, heedless to Josh's calls of warning and fear. Though her chest rose and fell fast, her eyes remained rock-steady. "What now, Drakken?" Kim bellowed, throwing her arms out wide. "You sent your pet monkey, and you sent your slimy toys. Where's you're A-game?"

For a moment, the cavernous space remained deathly still. Then, a slow clap echoed, growing faster as Kim tried to track its source. Movement caught the corner of her eye, pulling her attention to the upper deck.

A pair of gloved hands slammed together in mocking recognition of Kim's victory. Their owner stood at the second level's railing, leering down at the redhead with eyes full of malice. Her green-and-black-suited shoulders shrugged in an inviting gesture.

"Drakken's A-game is right here, Princess," Shego said, pointing to herself. "Where's yours?"

Kim lifted and straightened her arm. She leveled her fist at Shego, taking aim through the slits of her emerald scowl. Her other hand rose to steady her arm, and pressed a hidden control at her wrist. The seam atop her forearm blossomed open and launched a tiny grapnel spike straight for Shego.

The villainess didn't twitch as Kim's grapnel shot her way. She kept her smile as it struck the railing and latched on. When the taut nylon cord slingshot Kim into the air, Shego stepped aside as politely as possible to give Kim plenty of room to land. "It's about time," said Shego as Kim hopped onto the landing. "I was starting to worry. Thought Monkey Fist might have been too much for you."

"The boys are playing downstairs," quipped Kim, retracting the line back into her suit's sleeve. Then she pulled her arms up, striking into a battle stance. "So we're free to have some girl time."

Shego watched the rapid breath whistling through Kim's nose while the two women circled one another. "Look at you," she said with a laugh. "Already worn out."

"I've got plenty left for you, Shego," lied Kim. Even passed out for half a day, Kim hadn't had enough time to recuperate from a week's worth of nonstop escapades. She had to keep on the move and shift her stance to hide the tired tremble of her limbs.

Either Shego saw through her, or she didn't care. One way or the other, the smile Shego gave her as her hands burst into flame chilled Kim to the core. "Doubt that. But let's find out," she said.

Kim grunted and flew back at the gout of green fire hammering into her stomach. Her boots skidded across the floor, kicking up sparks as she fought to keep her footing. The suit held out against Shego's flames, saving Kim from the worst of its heat, but couldn't save her breath as it rushed out of her.

The darkened observatory swam in her eyes. Then it rolled on its side as Shego brought her foot upside Kim's head. The railing saved Kim from a lethal fall by slamming into her side while she reeled with the blow. She clutched at the bar and tried to settle her eyes on the green blur charging her from behind. Kim's clumsy roll kept her skull intact from Shego's blow, which rattled the railing instead.

"Hold still, you little—" Shego's growl became a groan as Kim lashed out blind and struck the pit of her stomach. The blow drove Shego back and wiped the smirk off her face. "You've got guts, girl," she rumbled, doubled over. "And I'm gonna spread 'em all over."

Shego's lost sneer found its way to Kim's lips. "Thanks," she said. "Looks like you just have a gut."

She kicked for Shego's midsection again. Shego caught the kick and twisted Kim's foot, forcing Kim to spiral to the floor. A second kick chased Shego back. Scorch marks marred the floor in the wake of Shego's handspring. Once on her feet, she launched a stream of fire at Kim with a fearsome howl. Kim fled in a graceless scramble, diving behind an empty crate that had housed parts for Drakken's machinations. By the time Shego mustered another blast to destroy the crate, Kim was no longer behind it.

"Oh, this is sad," said Shego, toeing the smoldering remains of the crate. She peered into the shadows throughout the room. No sign of Kim's escape revealed itself, so she picked a direction and began strolling along the perimeter of the upper deck. "This is what the great Kim Possible is reduced to? Running and hiding?"

No answer came from her taunt. Shego's glance became a glare as each shadow she searched failed to produce her cowering quarry. A flicker of movement from behind caught hold of her scowl, guiding her hand for a fiery blast. She melted thirty thousand dollars in astronomical equipment into a puddle of slag.

Shego gnashed her teeth and quickened her pace. "You ever wonder why I stay here at this amateur hour, Kimmie? Well, let me tell you a story." She whirled around, thinking to catch Kim right behind her, but Kim wasn't there. "Four years ago, I met this preppy cheerleader. She had some decent skills, even if she was full of herself. She reminded me of myself when I was her age. And I thought to myself, 'Shego, that's her. If there's one person on this dirtball planet that can beat you, it's her.' And ever since, I've been looking for a way to settle the score between us. Hell, I've been looking forward to it."

Instinct blared a warning to Shego's reflexes, which whirled her around in time to sidestep Kim's flying kick. She caught Kim by the throat and slammed the hero up against the wall, digging into her fancy new suit with flaming fingers.

"But look how the story ends," said Shego, crushing the life out of Kim with a renewed sneer. "You're exhausted, distracted, and totally tapped out. What a disappointment."

Kim gritted her teeth and gave up trying to pull Shego's iron grasp out from beneath her chin. "Then let me add a little plot twist for you," she grunted. Dangling, she drew her arms back and slammed the heels of her hands into Shego's breasts.

The villainess shrieked and backpedaled, dropping Kim so she could cradle her chest. "Ow! Bitch!" she snapped, doubled over and cursing in pain. "What kind of game are you playing?"

"It's not a game anymore," gagged Kim. She leaned against the wall, gasping for air. Her red face and hair framed a fearsome scowl that she leveled at her nemesis. "It's never been a game. I've just been too stupid to see it. But it's time to grow up."

Her throbbing chest poisoned Shego's words in her mouth. "I'm gonna tear you apart," she growled. Fire leapt into her hands, brighter and hotter than any she had ever summoned.

Kim straightened and matched Shego's tone. "Then I should even the odds," she shot back, and slapped the logo patch on her chest.

* * *

Blood sprayed from Ron's nose at the coaxing of a large, hairy fist. The blow spun Ron off his feet and slammed him onto the floor, where he rolled to a stop against the charcoal ruins of the lobby desk. A wad of blood and mucus stained the char at his cough before he started sucking in greedy breaths.

"'The Chosen One has the power to forever change the world,'" jeered Monkey Fist through his new fangs. He sauntered up to the heap of teen, folding his arms across his shaggy chest. "Those old mountaintop blowhards must be kicking themselves for picking you. Imagine how they'll beg for my forgiveness before I slaughter them."

Knuckled toes rapped Ron's heaving rib cage while he tried to collect himself. "Dressing up like a stunt double from King Kong doesn't make you a messiah or a king," he coughed.

The molesting foot hammered into his stomach, robbing Ron of all his hard-won breath. Monkey Fist leaned down while the teen gasped and gagged. "And I suppose your own feeble, neutered powers make you both, mmm? I can feel them, you know. They fester in that rotting carcass of yours. Untapped. Unappreciated. Perhaps I'll give them a good home before I…" Guttural laughter from the worm at his feet broke his train of thought. "What are you laughing about?" he demanded.

"You," Ron chuckled through his beleaguered pipes. "You're hilarious, you piece of crap." He pushed himself up to his feet, swaying unsteadily. The three mutated magical Monkey Fists he saw spinning before him made his stomach churn harder. "You think all it takes is a few powers and some disgusting monkey toes to make you some kind of god-king. You, Simia, Gorilla Fist…you're all the same."

"Take care who you lump me with, Stoppable," growled Fist. "I might make your death slower."

"Y'know, a year ago…" Ron stopped with a laugh. "Hell, six months ago, I would've loved to let you take away all that monkey crap. But I've seen what schmucks like you do with the power. So now?" He tugged on his sleeves and spit into his gloves, rubbing them together. "Now I'm gonna stop playing, and I'm gonna beat the ape right out of you."

Now it was Fist's turn to laugh. More monkey than man, his laughter hooted in Ron's face, spraying him with frothing flecks of spittle. "Really. How?"

Ron raised a pair of fingers. "Two words," he said, and turned the fingers back on himself. Their tips pressed against the patch on his chest. "Battle Mode."

Monkey Fist snickered at the utter lack of change in Ron's suit and the grimace Ron offered up. The villain couldn't possibly know about the series of needles inside of the suit that plunged Ron's skin in a dozen different places. Even his magically-altered ears couldn't hear the hiss of chemicals entering his body. All he was Ron cringe and drop to one knee.

"Battle Mode, eh?" said Monkey Fist with a snicker. "Seems it does half the job for me. Ah well." He sighed, and raised his fist for the killing blow.

When Ron unclenched his eyes and looked up, he gasped in shock: Monkey Fist's blow came down on him at a pace that snails would laugh at. His heart hammered and his body tingled as he looked around to find that the entire world had slowed to a crawl. Even Rufus, beating the tar out of the remaining ninjas across the room, moved as though mired in molasses.

Wade hadn't been able to dumb it down enough for Ron to understand completely. Most of the chemistry combat cocktail coursing through his veins remained unpronounceable to him. What he did understand was that Monkey Fist's blow was halfway to his head, and that every cell in his body felt supercharged.

He rolled to one side, moving out of the way of the blow with time to spare. Only the wind whistling in his ears made him believe that he was moving faster than normal, far faster than that furry freak. He swung an uppercut into Fist's lumpy, pasty chin with all the power he had. Amazement shone in his face as the hairy villain flew fifteen feet back into the wall.

Fist untangled his limbs and stood slowly, even by Ron's standards. He touched gingerly at his jaw. Blood dribbled from his fingers as he looked up at Ron in shock. "What kind of magic is this?" he said.

Ron flexed his arms, testing the extent of his new strength. The combat drugs of his Battle Mode had his heart going so hard, he wondered if his ribs could hold it in. But when he looked at Monkey Fist, he could see every single follicle on the villain's body rippling, and he could hear the wet breath wheezing through his squashed nose.

"The best kind of magic," Ron told him, charging forward. "Science."

* * *

The red trim along Kim's suit pulsed, sending a tingle through her body. Kim felt it sweep across her skin as a thousand tiny sensors connected to her. It tingled worst in her fingertips, where she felt micro-circuitry reconfigure itself inside the suit's material.

As the brief light faded, Shego's sneer grew. "That's your odds-evener? Glowy lights?" She laughed, and gathered new flames in her open palm. "Your new duds fizzle, and you're gonna sizzle, Possible."

Shego's fireball arced toward Kim's head. Without thinking, Kim swept her arm out in front of her, leading with the red piping on her suit. A wave of translucent red formed behind her arm and caught the green blast. Both energies crackled before dissipating into thin air, leaving a clear path between Shego's gape and Kim's delight.

"Fizzled, huh?" retorted Kim. She flexed her fingers. Dark crimson energy pooled into her hand, alighting her in hellish hues. "Looks like Battle Mode is a success. Props to Wade."

"Yeah, kudos," muttered Shego, gathering her own power in hand.

The two women leapt at each other, with twin trails of plasma twisting in the air behind them. Their neon blows met between them, crackling furiously as they fell to the floor. Swipe after swipe, they traded blows, ducking and dodging and keeping one step ahead of the other.

Kim flipped back, catching Shego on the chin with her heel. Black char spread where her glowing hands landed. The energy in her hands shot in short bursts, keeping Shego off-balance while Kim landed in a crouch.

"Aw, look at that," huffed Shego. She regained her footing as Kim gathered the glow between her hands. "You've got to be the cutest wannabe I've ever seen."

Kim braced herself as she brought her hands up and together. Plasma danced between them, crackling as it came together. "Is that what the horse said to the first automobile?" she asked impishly.

A stream of red leapt at Shego. She barely had time to summon her own fire to catch it in. The force of the burst drove her back across the floor with her teeth gritted and her eyes clamped shut. Her arms trembled as the last of Kim's shot dissipated, and her feet gripped the floor. When her eyes snapped open again, they were too late to warn her of Kim's barreling charge.

Shego caught Kim's fist and skidded back again, pushing back with everything she had. "You rotten little bitch," Shego snarled over the sound of their battling powers. "Why won't you fall?"

Braced against the other, they forced each other's arms above their heads. Plasma energy swam together, growing as each warrior tried to match the other. Red and green streamed into the air, lashing out in all directions. Astronomical equipment tore apart at its touch. The domed ceiling cracked beneath the onslaught, crumbling against unstoppable force and heat. Rainwater began seeping through the cracks. The air itself crackled and popped, stinking of ozone, as the energies compounded.

"Give it up, Copykim," Shego said through her teeth. Her face drifted toward Kim's as the deadly tempest flared around them. Large pieces of the ceiling tore away, quaking the floor as they fell, crushing everything beneath them. Sheets of rain pierced the gaps they left, quickly soaking everything it could touch.

Kim matched Shego's power with each burst. She ignored the tumbling blocks of iron and stone, and the rain that turned to steam as it struck their plasma storm. "Y'know, Shego," she said, "I'm a little sick of this story of yours. So let's write an ending."

Ceiling and rain fell relentlessly, crushing, soaking, burning in the women's powers as they staggered back and forth, filling the air with deadly energy. Shego glared, and shot, "What're you—whoa!"

Kim ducked down and slid between Shego's legs, dragging Shego's hands with her. Their powers cut out abruptly as Shego flipped and slammed onto the floor, then slid after Kim like a runaway trailer. The villainess yowled as Kim spun and lifted her from the floor, tossing her into a slagged pile of fallen ceiling.

Without their power umbrella, both women became instantly soaked by the fat, cold raindrops. Hair plastered into Kim's face as she stomped after Shego, flexing her hands. "See, that girl you found? That 'challenge' you were so eager to beat? She's tired of seeing your sour puss."

Bursts of red caught Shego in the chest when she tried to pull herself out of the sooty flotsam. Water sprayed around her as she struck the floor and skidded. Her thick folds of hair sucked in greedy gulps of water and nestled in her face. She struggled to free her eyes from the heavy curtain, then yelped when burning hands encircled her ankle.

"That girl you met doesn't like it when her friends and family get caught in the crossfire," grunted Kim.

She yanked Shego across the wet floor, building up steam. Shego struck the wall with bone-rattling force at Kim's swing. She splashed to the floor with a moan, still unable to see.

Kim grabbed Shego by the lapels before she even settled into a heap and hauled their faces together. "And she's really sick of dealing with your crap over and over again."

Shego squalled as Kim slammed her against the wall. Drained from their epic stalemate, she could only form embers in her trembling hands. "You're not better than me," she hissed, and lashed out.

Kim sidestepped Shego's clumsy attack. Her hands burst into red flames and slapped the wisping green fists aside, then blasted Shego back against the wall. "You're right," she told Shego. "We're not even playing in the same league anymore."

* * *

Blood sprayed from Monkey Fist's nose at the coaxing of a tight, gloved fist. He stumbled back with drunken steps and then doubled over at the boot burying itself into his stomach. His feeble cries cut short as the other foot cracked across his face, spinning him to the floor. Soot and more blood clung to his matted fur as he tried and failed to pick himself back up.

"So, I'm curious," said Ron, who cracked his knuckles while he sauntered over to Monkey Fist. "Does all that monkey power help you take a punch, or is this all natural talent?" His insides felt like they were on fire, but he moved like lightning and struck like an avalanche, making the pain worthwhile. "You're really good at it, y'know."

Scarlet light shimmered around Fist's outline. As the light receded back into the red studs around his neck, he found new strength with which to stand and face his foe. The matted blood in his fur remained, warping the hair above his scowl. "Your new clothes have made you a worth adversary at last, Stoppable."

Ron squinted. "Says the guy wearing three different flavors of magic," he retorted.

"Bud did you really think you had a chance?" More of the scarlet light enveloped Fist's furry form, burning away the foreign material stuck to him. His thick black fur undulated with waves of rolling energy that expanded to force Ron back.

"Is that a trick question?" Ron swiped his nose with his thumb and winked. The world blurred around him as he moved in for his final assault. "Back to the Primate House for you, Poo-Flinger."

Confidence helped cool Ron's burning core right up to the second when his fist plunged into the dancing magic that surrounded Fist. His sixth sense screamed in warning too late to save him from utter agony as the field wrapped around his hand. The magic tore into Ron, body and soul, shredding the glove mired in its grasp to drill tendrils into his arms.

The field expanded, grasping and digging into Ron all over as Monkey Fist cackled. "You see, boy?" he said. "You can't stop me." Fist grasped his rival and tossed him bodily across the room, slamming him into the wall.

Ron bounced onto the ground. He rolled over with a groan, clutching his head to keep it from rolling off. His very soul throbbed and warned him not to do anything so stupid as to touch the magic again. A shrill tone sounded off from his suit: he had only a minute before Battle Mode went into emergency shutdown. "Okay," he muttered, "Bad."

Fist's magic expanded and compounded. The tile at his feet tore apart at its touch, flying into shreds. "I have all the power, Pretender. You can't even touch me."

Shrinking from Fist's magic tempest, Ron found inspiration in the boast. "You're half-right, Dragonball. Rufus!"

Rufus looked over from across the room, ceasing his efforts with the last (semi)conscious monkey ninja. He stopped jumping atop its head and bounded across the floor, dodging the tile shards flung from Fist's aura. "Ho, ready!" he called.

"Monkey Glove!"

The mole rat's shape blurred as he leapt onto his partner's outstretched hand. He morphed himself to cover Ron's mangled fingers, and came aglow with the same light pulsing off of Monkey Fist.

Fist bristled with outrage as he watched his nemesis plunge into the magical aura with his rodent-hand outstretched. The waves of red pulsing from Fist's body rolled off of the pink, grinning glove, allowing Ron to trudge through the miring field step by step. "Your rodent!" shrieked Fist. "He possesses the power?"

"You keep forgetting," grunted Ron, "That there's three of us touched by those disgusting Idols you stole. And one of these things is not like the other." The gelatinous magic buffeted Ron back, tearing at the edge of his uniform. He felt Rufus push back with the force of their combined wills to break against the wall. Together, they fought their way to Monkey Fist, each wearing determined looks in the face of the mutated master.

Monkey Fist lost confidence with every foot Ron gained. "This…this isn't right," he cried, stumbling back. "You don't even want the power!"

The force grew unbearable, but Ron still fought. He drew even with the cowering Fist, squinting against the scarlet wall. Hair billowed in his face as he drew his Rufus'd hand back. "Maybe I don't want the power," he shouted above the roar of the tempest. "But I know you shouldn't have it. So **Sit! Down!**"

Ron slammed his palm into Monkey Fist's chest, pressing into the embedded Amulet. The tempest around them turned inward, slamming into the both of them. Their screams rose as one, and their eyes lit on fire. Ron felt his burning innards burst into a hellish inferno as the light around Fist grew blinding. He closed his eyes and held on, digging into the fur on Fist's chest, falling to his knees, gritting his teeth. Impossible pressure blossomed in his boots. His hand felt like it would burn away. And still, he held on.

The tempest ceased all at once, letting both men drop at the same time. Ron watched the world spring up and slam into him through swimming eyes. Gibbering pink goo slid off of his hand and plopped onto the floor next to Ron while he pulled his gaze up from the ground.

Hissing noise escaped the tears in his suit. Ron didn't even feel the second set of needles piercing his skin. Those needles injected potent sedatives, easing the frantic and painful beat of his heart as they counteracted his combat cocktail. Nausea pooled in his stomach as the chemicals commingled. The nausea spread and swelled inside of him until he forced it out in great, messy heaves, spilling his guts across the shattered tile.

When he had nothing left to get rid of, Ron wiped his mouth on his remaining sleeve. Pale, rosy flesh sat in a great lump at his elbow. Ron examined the lump, noting with no joy that, even without his thick monkey fur, his arch-foe was still a hairy man. Trailing the patchy hair down the villain's legs, he was surprised to find wholly human feet at their ends. Ron flipped him over, and found no sign of the red stones in his neck, or the amulet.

"Looks like you're all monkey'd out, Monty," he said to his insensate foe. A flash of green caught his eye, and he rolled his hand over. The shape of the Amulet of the Monkey King crinkled in his palm, like a green tattoo sans the needle. His bare knuckles looked meatier than before, and sported new, wispy blond hairs. "Huh. Guess if that's the worst to happen for drainin' you dry, I can live with…"

A draft blew across his feet. As they were supposed to be tucked in his boots, the impossibility of this wasn't lost on Ron. Fearful, he looked own his legs. The ends of his boots had torn open from the inside to make room for more 'changes.' Ron's eyes grew saucer-sized with horror as a set of opposable toes wriggled at the ends of his feet. They curled over his boots' edges.

He moaned, and then vomited up food he hadn't even known about. Doubled over, he dry-heaved himself into submission, while his new toes tapped patiently on the floor. "No way," he said, spitting. He grabbed his knees and panted, staring at the new appendages, feeling ready to puke again. "I don't believe this. You!" His eyes flashed red as they descended upon Fiske. "You limey piece of crap! Take your feet back!" he hollered, and drove his curled toes into Fiske's stomach. The kick didn't transfer those awful toes back to the villain, but it made Ron feel better. "Frikkin' monkeys…"

* * *

With crimson fists, Kim pummeled Shego left and right, knocking the larger woman about like a rag doll. The burnt-out villain couldn't muster more than a sparkle before Kim slapped her down. Her suit-powered plasma burst in Shego's face, slamming the villainess back into the wall.

Kim drew a sharp arc through the air and threw it into Shego's stomach, bowling her over. "I think our little tale just reached its climax," she said, striking a stance. The red fire in her hands agreed, steaming in the rain. "What say we get to the dénouement. You surrender, I get my folks, and we all wind up with our just desserts."

Broken, bleeding, burnt, Shego sagged against the wall with a deadly glare leveled at her nemesis. She opened her trembling hands and tried to bring forth her inner fire to combat Kim's techno-facsimile. Mere sparks answered her call, fizzling at once. She didn't have the strength or the focus; her head pounded and spun too badly. But there was one thing she did have.

"Oh, I'll give you your 'just desserts,' Possible," growled Shego. Her fingers fumbled into a pouch on her suit, pulling out a small device. Kim couldn't make out its shape before Shego pressed it into the nape of her neck. Shego lifted her head and sucked in a breath as the chip activated. "I'll shove them down your throat, you little c—"

But the high-pitched whine that came as Shego lowered her hand brought no salvation to its bearer. Instead, a current leapt through her body, spilling out from the chip while it burned into her flesh. Kim stepped back, repulsed by the smell of burning flesh, recoiling from Shego's haunting scream.

Shego collapsed to her knees, clawing at her neck with an inhuman yowl. Scorched flakes of electronics tumbled from her hair. "Drakken!" she roared, falling onto her hands and heaving. Her eyes lolled about. In a shrinking voice, Shego said, "You said…you said…"

**"So sorry, Shego," **the electronic tones of Mister Voice said from the shadows. **"There was only enough working components to cobble together one Emulator Chip."**

As Shego collapsed onto the slick floor, Kim tracked the warped monotone. She gasped as a dark shape took form, stepping out of the shadows and into the rain. A boxy voice modulator sat at his lips, hiding a cruel smile.

**"And how could I let you have all the fun?"** Doctor Drakken asked, and lowered the voice modulator from his mouth. Now nothing spared Kim from his demented leer. "No," he said to himself, peering through the storm that sprayed through the broken ceiling, "I plan on savoring this treat all by myself."

**To Be Continued**


	13. Showdown

_All-Purpose Disclaimer_

Kim Possible is a registered trademark of Disney, Inc. She's also kept me sane these past two years, and for that, I owe her my thanks, and so much more. So I hope you all cheer for her, because this fight isn't over yet, and she could use the support.

* * *

_Kim's search ended when she heard grunting laughter filter through the D-hall men's room. A moment's pause outside the green, rusty door confirmed her worst fears when she heard a muted and familiar cry end in gargling misery. She paid no mind to the sophomore girls giggling at her from behind their lockers. Pushing the door open, she strode in and shouted, "Drop him."_

_She couldn't have imagined the scene more perfectly if she had seen it beforehand; two of the varsity football team's offensive linemen were squeezed into a single, smelly stall, each with a leg in hand to suspend their dripping victim over the toilet bowl. Their QB leaned against a sink with a pink rodent squirming in his fist, and laughed openly at the display._

_"You're the boss," the prank's ringleader said. He nodded to his thugs, who plunged their sputtering scrub of blond back into the toilet._

_Anger flashed in her eyes before they became a streak of green. She flipped forward, kicking his fist, forcing the squealing rodent up into the air. Pushing off from her handstand, she flew up and over their heads to land nimbly atop the flimsy walls of the dunking stall. The wailing pink projectile fell into her waiting grasp as she glared down at the linemen._

_"Let me rephrase," she said, cradling the mole rat to quell its shivering. "Pick him up, turn him over, and walk away."_

_The massive football players balked at her gymnastic prowess, the tip of her reputed iceberg. They glanced back at their quarterback, but his chiseled jaw was clenched too tight to say anything. Uncertain, they pulled their victim out of the toilet and upended him. The gangly boy coughed and sputtered his way to the floor. Liberated from the bowl, his face now proudly displayed purpling bruises that drove a flaming spear into Kim's stomach._

_As Kim dropped down next to the boy, the quarterback found his voice. She liked to chalk his burst of bravery up to the combined six hundred pounds of muscle returning to his side. "You gonna fight the spaz's battles for him all his life?" he asked her once his linemen formed a barricade between the two._

_Kim patted the water out of her best friend's lungs. She met their scowls with a cool look, and said, "Ron fights his own battles, Brett. I just end them when they get out of hand."_

_"You're pretty hot stuff for a frosh, Possible," Brett said. His smoldering gaze traversed her lime tank top's collar. "You'd be hotter if you stopped doing so much charity work and started hanging with the right people."_

_The air between them grew frigid, concordant with her cool look's drop into the subzero. "Walk away," Kim told him through her teeth._

_Brett looked ready to argue the point, but reconsidered at the twitch of her brow. He and his goons strode out with as much dignity as they could muster. Their dirty looks rolled off of Kim like the water dripping from Ron's battered face. "Hey, thanks a lot, guys," he called cheerily. "Let's get together again real soon. How's next week looking for you?" As the door swung closed, he chuckled, and muttered, "Mine's terrible."_

_Flustering hands wiped at his face with a handkerchief, mashing his swollen features dry before ruffling his hair. "Ron," Kim said fussily, "You have got to start watching gout for those guys."_

_"I'll remember that the next time they hunt me down and carry me off," he said with a wry smile._

_Kim's concerned frown couldn't last against the grateful twinkle in his eyes. She swiped playfully at the cut on his chin with her kerchief before helping him to his feet. "Well, you look like a raw steak lost at sea. Better head for the nurse's office and get your lungs siphoned before you drown on your feet."_

_The minute she said it, she knew she had taken it too far; Ron's chocolate eyes narrowed with suspicion as he said, "Okay, what's the sitch? Humor's my bag. And usually, you don't find me until after the train wreck, not during."_

_Rufus jumped from Kim's knee into the crow's nest on Ron's crown and tried to make sense of it while Kim attempted to sound casual. "Oh, it's nothing. Just this 'thing' out in the Rockies. Lost hikers, impending blizzard. No big. You probably don't feel up for it any—"_

_"Are you going?"_

_The question rocked Kim back. Ron was listing from side to side with dizziness, and looked like he had just been pulled out of a sea storm (despite Rufus's masterful stylist touch). But the gravity in his face that pulled his mirthful, swollen expression taut crinkled Kim's brow. "I…" said Kim, surprised. "Yeah, of course I am."_

_Ron plucked the tiny stylist from his hair before anything could be done about his cowlick. Brushing his soaked jersey to no effect, he said, "Then let's go," he said, grinning from ear to ear._

_Protest parted Kim's lips. Her sharp tongue had a hundred good reasons for Ron to stay behind balanced on its tip, not the least of which being the purpling bruise that was swelling his eye shut. But one look at his smile left her speechless, and filled her with warmth she couldn't fight._

_She found herself reaching for his hand as his smile spilled over onto her face. "Let's go," she echoed, and led him out the bathroom door.

* * *

_

**Kim Possible**  
**The Power of Friendship**

_by Cyberwraith9_

* * *

"I should have known," Kim said. 

Icy rain drenched the three of them—Kim, Drakken, and an unconscious Shego—through the jagged gaps in the distant dome ceiling. Ozone hung in the air, left over from Kim and Shego in their final battle. Fatigue weighed heavily in Kim's arms as she cupped the dancing red flames of her Battle Mode, but her glare was just getting warmed up.

Drakken shrugged his arms out wide. "What's the matter, Kim Possible? Are you upset that I had you totally fooled, or that I sent you halfway around the globe to chase…me?" He tossed her the boxy device in his hand, the source of his 'Mister Voice' persona.

Kim caught and crushed the voice modulator. Its bits burned to nothing in her hand's fire. "Both," she said, advancing on him.

As she raised her hands to blast Drakken into another time zone, the plasma flames in her hands faltered, then faded, drawing back into her suit's red trim. Kim stumbled to a halt and stared at her hands. She tried slapping the trigger set beneath her Team Possible patch. Nothing happened.

"Oh, and look at that," crowed Drakken, pulling a tiny black disk from his pocket. He began to flip the nickel-sized disk from his thumb. "It looks like your tussle with Shego wore down your batteries. How opportune," he said with a sneer.

Kim dropped into a fighting stance, shaking away her surprise. "Like I need super powers to mop the floor with you. Now give up, and save us both some trouble."

The tired tremble in her legs didn't escape Drakken's notice. "So certain, are we?" he asked, nodding at her knees.

She drew herself upright, locking her legs, and swung an arm out. "Just surrender," she snapped. "I won't let you hurt my city with your ray."

"Sure." A control box found its way into his hand. He tossed this to Kim freely, just as he had his modulator. She fumbled with it while he said, "That's the remote control for the Entropy Cannon. Oh, the shutdown sequence is the blue button. You could self-destruct it with the red one, but…" Looking over at the grand weapon, he said, "Well, we're a little close for that. Besides, you wouldn't want a Nevada-sized crater where Middleton used to be."

Her thumb grazed the blue button. She bit her lip and gave Drakken an uncertain look. Against her better judgment, she pressed the button. The two-story cannon groaned as its lights winked out one by one. Its soft, electrical hum died, leaving the patter of raindrops to serenade their standoff.

The control box clattered and splashed as she tossed it aside and resumed her stance. Drakken's smile punched through Kim's soaked, paper-thin patience. "I'm sick of your games, Drakken," she roared. "What is this all about?"

His face split wide. "What has it always been about, Kim Possible?" he asked her sweetly. "It's all about you."

* * *

Terrified breath lingered in Monique's chest as she descended the stairs into the basement. Her hands shook so badly, she had to clench both of them until her knuckles ached beneath their gloves. Wet hair swished behind her swiveling gaze as it plumbed the shadows. The crop top and cargo pants clinging to her body, heavy and cold with rain, were not the source of her chills. 

"Not upstairs," she muttered to herself, treading softly on the cement steps. "Not in the offices. Just like playing hide-and-seek." Sweat or rainwater, or both, dribbled down her neck. "Only the guys I'm seeking want to do my body serious harm."

Her outlook brightened when she hit the floor and spied the crude cage wedged into the corner. The dark, empty stretch of floor between her and the milling prisoners stretched on for a dangerous eternity, but a familiar pair behind the bars spurred her forward.

"Monique!" Missus Possible cried as the teen slammed into the bars. "Sweetie, it isn't safe here. You have to go."

Monique's hands scrambled across the bars, grabbing at the wrought-iron lock and pulling experimentally. She paused long enough to flash Kim's parents a reassuring smile she didn't feel in the least. "Don't worry, Doctor Possible…and Doctor Possible. I'll have you out of there just as soon as I teach myself to pick locks."

Mister Possible glanced over the top of Monique's bobbing head while she poked into the lock. His eyes went wide, and he gasped. "Monique, look out!"

The dreamy teen spun around, falling on her butt. She shrieked at the putter swinging thorough the space her head had just left. The club clanged against the bars as she rolled onto her belly and out of harm's way. Rising clumsily, she stumbled back with another shriek to escape the putter's follow-up blow.

"Ach, you're no' the lassie," said Killigan, shouldering his club. "You're no' even th' dippit. You're that lass what queered th' deal with Drakken's rocket."

"I know who I am," shot Monique. She backed away, tripping over her own feet as her brave front collapsed. "And I know who you are, Mister…Golfer…guy."

Killigan's thick brow fell over his eyes. "Y' wee little tart! I am Duff Killigan, the world's deadliest golfer. Prepare to meet your doom, girlie!"

A funny look crossed her face. "Deadliest? What kind of competition is there for that?" Her bravado disappeared when Killigan backed her into the wall. "I m-mean, you don't s-s-see many killers out there on the l-links, right?"

The club at Killigan's shoulder flipped open, unsheathing a long, flexible blade from its head. Killigan's other hand produced an oversized pistol the likes of which Monique had never seen. Both weapons swung about to rest on Monique, worsening her stammer. "Maybe a demonstration will fix your wagon," he suggested, waving the tip of his putter sword beneath her chin.

A lump ran down Monique's throat past the glistening point. Her trembling fists rose up to meet his weapons. "Y-you don't know who you're m-m-messing with. You know who t-taught Kim and Ron all that Kung Fu j-jazz?" Waving her hands about, she declared, "You're lookin' at h-her."

"Oh, Kung Fu." Killigan scratched his head with his gun's barrel, grinning. "Well, maybe I'll be needing a wee spot o' help then."

A whistle sang from his bearded lips. Monique squinted as the basement's lighting clacked on. Then she goggled at the half-dozen syntho-drones lurking near the stairwell. The hulking drones spread out from the door, killing Monique's fantasies of escape.

Backed up by his crimson guard, Killigan couldn't help but swagger back. "So, lassie, do I have enough, or should I call in for more?" When Monique couldn't answer, he leaned in and cupped an ear. "Wha' was that?"

One of the syntho-drones stumbled in its approach. Viscous green goo glopped onto the floor as its outline began to fold inward. Before it could finish emptying, the drone next to it staggered as well. The hilt of a combat knife quivered in its head, twin to the one caught in the folds of its sagging twin. As the second began to drain, the rest of the drones turned to face the stairwell.

Killigan looked back, watching his reinforcements puddle onto the floor. Behind him, Monique pulled her voice together. "I'd say you might not have enough goo bags, baby."

Two dark shapes leapt from the stairwell, rolling in opposite directions. Synchronized motion carried them into the remaining syntho-drones. They darted through the formation, evading the drones' sluggish swipes with preternatural grace, and then leapt out of the fray as the four drones converged on one spot.

Killigan raised his pistol, growling at the pair cartwheeling his way. "More wee sprouts? Impossible!"

The two landed upright, each dressed in black and khaki. One stepped forward, raising a dark black device for Killigan to see. Running a hand through his crop of chestnut hair, he struck a pose, and said, "Close. But actually, it's Tim Possible."

Tim mashed the button. The syntho-drones behind them all heard beeping, and looked amongst each other to find blinking discs adhered to their leathery exoskeletons. That was all they had time to do before they joined together in an expanding ball of fire and thunder.

Warm green biogel splattered across the room, spraying its occupants. Monique squirmed and flinched, wiping the syntho-goo off her face. "Points for the entrance, Double-Mint," she said, "But points off for the mess."

* * *

Kim's mind raced, trying to make sense of her crumbling concept of the way of the world. She fought to keep her face flat; no matter how upside-down the world became, she would not let herself fall apart in front of Drakken. "You were our contact all along," she said. 

"That's right," said Drakken.

Soggy hair swung into her scowl. "You had us raid Dementor's lair. You tricked us into doing your dirty work for you. Dementor got desperate, and you swooped in with all the answers."

The little black disk rolled between Drakken's fingers. "The little troll is too smart for his own good." With a little giggle, he added, "And you should have seen the look on his face when we took his Cannon." He feigned shock and outrage in a fair impression of Dementor, thrusting his jaw out and making huffing noises.

"You dangled the Evidence Locker in front of your little stooges so they'd get you everything you needed," she said. "And you used that," she nodded, toeing the charred remains of his modulator, "To make sure we'd show up when you wanted us there."

"Mmm, guilty as charged," he hummed gleefully. He plucked the flipping chip from the air and brought it behind his head. Lifting his pony tail, he pressed the chip into his neck. A brief look of pain curdled his mirth as the tines dug into his skin. Then he shivered. "Ooh. Tingly."

Kim clenched her fists and strode forward. Whatever fatigue that had weighed her down vanished in a wave of rage. "Well, guess what," she shot, glaring through her limp, sopping bangs, "I'm here now, and I'm bringing you down."

She reached out to grab him by the shoulder. As her fingers brushed his lab coat, he sidestepped her entirely, remaining just out of reach. Angered, Kim lunched for his arm. Drakken rolled aside, spinning as gracefully as a dancer. He moved with fluidity Kim had never seen in him before. That twisted smile of his remained through a mocking pirouette and a bow. "Is there a problem?" he asked. "I'm right here."

Frustration set her teeth together and locked her green glare on his smug, ugly countenance. "I don't know what possessed you to take dance classes, Drakken…"

Kim's fist arced at his jaw. In her mind, she saw the simple chain of events unfold: her knuckles would drive the consciousness from his body, leaving him a heap of washed-up villain at her feet, and giving her all the time in the world to search for her parents. Regardless of this uncharacteristic grace, he was still Drakken, and Kim refused to let him make a fool out of her.

Water sprayed from her fist as it flew past Drakken's smile; he teetered back, allowing her shot to go wild. While she was still off-balance, he stepped in and slapped her on the back of the head. Kim staggered forward at the limp-wristed blow, more shocked than hurt. She looked back at him with wide eyes. "How did you…"

"I didn't," he said with another mocking bow. As he dipped, his pony tail swung to one side, allowing Kim a glimpse of the tiny chip embedded in his neck. A gasp parted her lips. Drakken must have read the recognition in her face, for his delight compounded. "You like? Of course, mood swings don't do much good, which is why I altered it to overwrite certain synaptic patterns of mine for other impulses…say, the fighting instincts copied from another via my Mind Reader ray?"

Her shock hardened into a new scowl. "The beam at the Evidence Locker."

"Your skills are my skills now, Kim Possible," he said in a low voice.

With faltering confidence, Kim retorted, "So what? You're middle-aged and overweight. Do you really think you can take me with some borrowed moves and a spare tire?"

He shrugged, and thrust his hands into his pockets. "I suppose you're right. Maybe I will give up now."

When he drew his hand back out, gold glimmered in a band around his finger. The sagging lines of his lab coat began to swell as Drakken's muscle structure reinvented itself with a steady hiss. As he rose to new heights, he said, "Or maybe I'll use one of those old muscle rings of Hench's that Shego stole from the Evidence Locker."

Kim watched him grow with sinking horror. "Hoo boy," she mumbled.

* * *

Ron burst through the door and into the cavernous room. He stumbled, bare feet slapping on the wet floor, and cursed. "Stupid monkey magic," he grumbled, wriggling the hideous, freakishly long digits that hung from the ends of his busted boots. "First chance we get, we're going to find hedge clippers and fix your wagon," he told the offensive toes. 

"Mwoah," Rufus groaned in sympathy from his pocket. "Painful."

"You aren't helping," he said to his pocket. Lifting his feet, he watched them drip onto the tepid puddle that glistened across the entire floor, and he noticed that it was raining indoors. His eyes swept up to the gaps in the ceiling, and then caught sight of movement on the upper deck. "What in the hell…Kim?" Ron watched a sodden ribbon of red swishing in the shadowy haze of the rain, dancing around a mammoth of a man he did not recognize.

A cry of alarm tore Ron's eyes from the battle. When he caught sight of Drakken's hostage pinned to the wall next to his own painting, he was torn; he felt a desperate need to rush to Kim's aid, compounded with an intense distaste for helping Kim's old/new boyfriend out of any predicament. But he knew what Kim would say, what his responsibility as a hero and an all-around good guy would require of him. And what's more, he could picture the roll of her eyes at the notion that she needed him to come charging to her rescue.

Ron hydroplaned to a stop in front of Josh Mankey, eyeballing the frightened teen and his metal bonds. A small, unworthy sliver of disappointment mingled with his relief as he examined Josh's unmarred form. "Easy, artsy-fartsy. We'll have you out of there in a jiffy…I think." He pulled at Josh's bonds to no effect. His muscles felt like jelly, and nausea swam in his stomach still.

Panic twisted Josh's handsome face. "Ron, forget about me. Kim needs you! She's fighting that green lady, Shelia, or whatever."

"M'kay, first off, it's 'Shego.' If you're going to date her, you could at least take an interest in what she does." Rufus joined in, helping Ron try to pry Josh from the wall.

Josh's eyes drifted above Ron's unruly crop of hair. "Ron!"

"Dude, it's okay. We'll get you some flash cards, and—"

"Behind you!"

The warning came too late to save Ron from a devastating blow to the back of his head. His forehead slammed into the wall, lighting stars behind his eyes as he fell to his knees. Dazed, Ron managed to roll himself against the wall and slump onto his backside, staring up at a walking, waking nightmare. "Oh, son of a bitch," he moaned.

"Hey, buddy." Erik loomed over him with hands on hips. He wore the same red and black scheme Ron remembered, as though pulled straight from memory. "You don't look so good. Need a hand?"

Ron wiped the spittle from his mouth, spreading rainwater there instead. "The tweebs told me you were the one that busted them up. I half-wanted to think they were just seeing things."

He swept his legs out and caught Erik by surprise, knocking the syntho-drone to the floor with a splash. Rufus leapt from his pocket with a war cry and careened into the drone's chest. The tiny pink terror's teeth tore across Erik's pecs. Green biogel bubbled to fill the gash.

"And the other half is glad I get the chance to watch your bubble burst again," continued Ron, catching Rufus on the rebound. The mismatched partners wore identical smiles that faded simultaneously; the gash in Erik's chest pinched shut, ceasing its green dribble as the drone rose back to his feet. "Or maybe not. Not good," Ron quipped, scrambling up.

Erik's arm stretched, bridging the gap between them at impossible speed. Ron had never seen anything—magical, technological, or natural—move so fast, and couldn't react in time to save Rufus from his grasp. The drone snatched Rufus out of Ron's hand and whipped him against the wall hard. Plaster cracked as Erik drove his pray into the wall, creating a massive pink smear that hung with a dazed look before sliding to the floor.

"I've had some changes for the better," said Erik, pulling his arm back to its original length. He rolled his arm, loosening nonexistent muscles while Ron scraped his insensate friend off of the wet floor. "I hear you have, too. But if some creepy toes are all you've got to show for the last two years…"

Ron poured Rufus's syrupy body into the pocket at his thigh. A dark look infected his friendly, freckled face, spreading from eyes that crackled with fury. He stood slowly, clenching his fists until their knuckles cracked. "You wanna see what I can do, Goo-Bot?" he asked. "Let's play."

* * *

Wild, frenzied bucking couldn't loose Monique from Killigan's shoulders. She wrapped her arms tighter around his neck and clamped her eyes shut. "Hey, Look-alikes!" she cried, yelping as the mad golfer tried to shake her off. "Get that cage open. I can't keep Miniskirt McGee busy forever!" 

"I's a kilt!" Killigan howled.

Across the basement, Jim and Tim knelt in front of the makeshift cage's door. Their parents pressed into the bars from the opposite side, along with the rest of the frantic Observatory staff, as they examined the lock.

"Boys, get us out of here!" one lab technician cried, rattling their cage.

Mister Possible pushed the panicking man back and knelt down. "Belay that, boys. Get Monique and get out of here. It's too dangerous—"

"Mom," Tim said impatiently, trying to see the lock over his brother's shoulder, "Could you please tell Dad to shut up so we can save everybody?"

She was only half-listening, paying more attention to the butterfly patch on Tim's cheek. "Sweetie, that looks nasty. Did you put an antiseptic on—"

"Mom," shot Jim, clutching a fistful of hair, "Seriously! I'm trying to think, and you're mom-ing up my concentration."

Tim blew a frustrated breath. "Uh, hello? We're Tee-Pee now. That means we've got the gear." He pulled out his Timmunicator and thumbed a control. A small, multi-adaptive tool extension blossomed from its top, ratcheting through a plethora of tools in the blink of an eye.

"Duh!" Jim brightened and pulled out his Jimmunicator, activating its multi-tool. "The utility lasers should be able to cut through this stuff no problem. Hoo sha!"

Red light shot from their multi-tools in pencil-thin beams, throwing sparks from the cage's bars as they burned through the lock. The light show caught Killigan's notice through his struggle with Monique. "No!" he howled. He ran backwards and leapt, crushing Monique against the wall, dazing her enough to let go. Then he stuffed a hand into a pouch on his belt and whipped out a barrage of blinking golf balls.

The frantic parents stumbled back from their cage door, dragging their fellow prisoners with them. "Boys," Missus Possible cried, "Look out!"

Her warning saved their lives, but only just. Jim and Tim leapt away to escape the worst of the blast, and then squalled as concussion waves blew them into the air. Ringing filled everyone's ears, masking the thud of the twins' insensate bodies striking the concrete.

Monique rubbed her ears as she rose to her feet. Her rattling eyes fell upon Killigan's back swaggering toward one of the twins. She watched him draw a club from his bag and swing it down at the teen's head in slow motion. Malevolence torqued his features as he shuffled the club's components around, transforming it into a rifle.

"I wait through Drakken's foolishness, and all I get is th' B-team?" groused Killigan. He jabbed Jim with the barrel of his club-rifle and snorted. "Y' may be brave, but y' aren't ready for th' big leagues."

A lilac missile struck Killigan in the head when his finger mashed the trigger, sending the shot into the floor next to Jim's head. Killigan snarled and stomped blindly on the projectile, and then lifted his foot to find the broken remains of a Kimmunicator underfoot. Tracking the shot back to its source revealed an unpleasant surprise.

"All this 'big league' talk coming from a hairy guy in a skirt," crowed Monique as she walked forward on unsteady legs. "I gotta tell ya, it's not all that impressive."

Killigan snorted and swung his club-rifle around. "Ye can nae be serious," he grumped.

She flipped the hair out of her eyes, feeling her stomach lurch as the barrel of Killigan's gun zeroed in on her. But she would not run. "I can," she said, and squared her shoulders. For the first time, she understood what Kim felt, and voiced it proudly: "I can do anything."

* * *

A decade of martial arts guided her hands. Hundreds of missions and battles put confidence in her stance. Panic fueled her exhausted body. And all of it wasn't enough. 

Kim Possible spun through the air at the behest of a fist wrapped in black latex. She rolled with the punch all the way to the ground, landing on all fours. The world around her continued to sway after she touched down, spiraling on a smiling blue axis, and then lurched as a boot caught her mid-stomach.

"Now, you might be asking yourself, 'Why doesn't Drakken use his giant cannon to take over my drab, suburban dump of a city?' And it's a fair question." Drakken smiled and strolled after Kim, rolling his shoulders. The thick, powerful muscles stretching his lab coat made him feel good. The sounds Kim Possible made as she gagged up her stomach's contents into a puddle made him feel spectacular. "You see, I had an epiphany during my last stint in prison. You may recall, you were the one to put me there."

The grounded girl lashed out with a sweep kick aimed at Drakken's thick legs. Thanks to his Emulator Chip, her own fighting talent guided him over her leg in a casual hop. He took the fight out of her with another kick. As she lay doubled over, he bent down and patted her cheek, grinning ear to ear at the wheezes rattling in her throat.

"Do you mind?" he asked. "Rude. Now, where was I? Epiphany. You see, I realized something while working on my next brilliant plan. I could plan for every eventuality, work through every detail, and it would mean absolutely nothing."

"You…" Kim rolled away, and kept rolling from Drakken's easygoing gait.

He gave her little concern as she clamored to her feet. "It would mean nothing because you would stop me regardless. Take this cannon, for example. Sure, it's a great plan. But if I had put everything into the cannon plan, you probably would have taken it out with some cheerleading move, or that weasel thing that lives in your sidekick's pants."

Kim staggered in, throwing a one-two combination that usually threw Shego for a loop. Drakken slapped her fists aside like they were balloons caught in the breeze. Then she ducked, barely avoiding the very hook kick she would have used to counter that combo. "This whole ploy was a trick?" she said, flipping back to escape his haymaker punch.

Drakken flipped after her with perfect form. "What's the one flaw in every one of my plans?" he called after her.

"A rich, gooey center of stupidity?" She landed and sprang at him, hoping to catch him off-guard with her classic flying kick."

Her plan went sour in an instant; Drakken caught her against his massive chest and swung her by the foot, tossing her. She skidded through the water and slammed against the upper deck's railing. The world around her left without warning, leaving her to flounder in dark nothingness, returning in increments with the throbbing pain in her head.

Rough, huge hands grabbed the front of her battle suit and hauled her into the air. "You are," he said. The cold rain pelting her face helped jolt the world around her into focus. Unfortunately, all she could see was his ugly, scowling face atop a ridiculously broad neck. Veins bulged in his face as he said, "You're the x-factor that's always bringing me down. So, if I eliminate you, then the world is as good as mine."

No matter how hard Kim pounded, she couldn't break Drakken's iron grip. "You're kidding," she slurred.

"Without you, there'll be no one left to stop me. Without that x-factor, I cannot fail."

Drakken hefted her with one arm and tossed, throwing Kim back across the upper deck and into the wall. She bounced and splashed to the floor, making the most delightful whimper as her face plunged into the grand puddle covering everything.

"Look at you. You're exhausted. Your weapons are tapped out. Your sidekicks are gone. You're terrified." Crisp, splashing footsteps carried Drakken through the downpour, kicking waves into Kim's face. "And when the world finds out who broke the mighty Kim Possible, they will beg me for mercy."

Kim struggled to pull herself up. "I…I'm not…"

Steely fingers wrapped around Kim's wrist and yanked her arm behind her back. She fell back to the ground with a splash, half-drowning as Drakken pressed her into the floor with her own joint-locked arm, bubbling helplessly at his vicious laugh. "But you won't be there to beg with them, Kimmie."

* * *

Ron felt his ribs give way one by one beneath a lightning-fast snap kick that lifted him off his feet. An addled part of his distant, dizzy mind scoffed, noting that his ribs always broke at the slightest repeated pummeling, and that he should think about replacing them. The rest of him fell back to the ground in a ball of pain in no condition to block the black set of knuckles from pounding him in the breadbasket. 

Hands that smelled of latex caught Ron by the jaw and kept him from collapsing. His eyes lolled about, eventually centering on Erik's smile. "Hey, c'mon, Ronnie. Don't crap out on me yet," Erik cooed, squeezing Ron's cheeks together. "We've got a lot more fun to have."

Air wheezed in and out of Ron's puckered lips, setting his broken chest on fire. "Just…just getting warmed up," he said in a labored voice. "When I get my second wind…all five of you are toast." His entire face throbbed and swelled, cutting into the edges of his vision with shades of purple.

Erik laughed and let Ron drop to his knees. "Y'know, Doctor Drakken brought me back to mess with Kimmie's head. Don't see why, since he's already got the other guy there," he added with a nod in Josh's direction.

"J…Josh?"

"Why else would Drakken have Shego steal a stupid painting?" said Erik, laughing. He turned Ron's eyes toward the portrait hanging next to his hostage. It was wasted effort, as Ron couldn't focus on the end of his own nose. One eye was almost completely swollen shut, and the other could only grasp a glimpse of color before Erik turned their faces back together. "I mean, look at it! He's obviously head-over-heels for her. And who else would he call when his precious little portrait went missing from Middleton?"

Ron felt the last piece of a mystery fall into place, and felt a strange sort of peace. If he was going to die, there was at least one less loose end to carry with him. "Oh," he said dizzily.

"But I am just tickled pink that we ran into each other," continued Erik, giving Ron's cheek a playful slap. "I'm just…there aren't words, man. Really."

His knee pounded into the bridge of Ron's nose, blinding him as he toppled back in agony. Erik's hand shot forward and snagged his suit to keep him aloft. He lifted Ron into the air, and then slammed Ron back into the ground. The sopping tile sprayed water and shards as Ron flopped still, groaning at the boot Erik planted at the small of his back.

Erik leaned over with a grin spread across his sculpted features, and said in a friendly voice, "Did you know that I could think in that little jar GJ had me gathering dust in? Two years I spent, just sitting there, thinking. I thought a lot about that tasty redhead holding your leash." At that, Ron growled, and tried to stand. But Erik's boot crushed into his spine, turning his growl into a groan. "But I spent some time thinking of you, pal-o-mine." Erik's face twisted, loosing its smile. He ground his boot harder into Ron's back and snarled, "How you beat me with that bucktooth rat-clown. That wasn't cool. It hurt. And you know what they say."

Ron's vertebrae popped underfoot, and he screamed.

"What goes around comes around."

Erik pulled his boot up and drove his heel into Ron's side, rolling him over. Ron couldn't even cry out anymore. He scraped against the floor with shaking fingers, trying to rise to his hands and knees. Another kick brought him there. Doubled over, he let his head drop into the pooling waters and settled for just breathing.

A spiteful chuckle filtered through the ringing in Ron's ears. "The more things change…" quipped Erik, toeing Ron's cheek with his boot. "You were a loser in high school, and you're a loser now."

"Least I'm real," heaved Ron, unable to look up.

"And that matters…how?" said Erik. "If being 'real' means I have to have goofy ears, brown speckles, and a cowlick, I'll stick with my exoskeleton." He rapped his chest, grinning at its hollow knock. "Kim never seemed to mind, anyway."

Memory rushed back to Ron. Eyes closed, he watched as every moment he ever saw Kim and Erik spend together replay in high-definition surround sound: every soft sigh she gave him, every touch they shared, every longing look her emerald eyes gave Erik, and every gut-wrenching second she looked through Ron to do it.

"I gotta tell you, I'm looking forward to picking apart whatever Drakken leaves." Erik's voice grew clearer through the ringing and the pounding sheets of rain. "Even softened up, I gotta imagine that's a sweet ride." He watched the fallen hero tremble, sending ripples through the watery floor, and knelt down to speak directly in Ron's ear. "I saw the way you looked at her, Ronnie."

Water sloshed up into Ron's face at Erik's approach. As his face dripped, Ron felt the wetness under his eyes burn. He tasted salt as his lips parted and his breath quickened.

Erik's chuckle deafened him. "I'll tell you what, Ronnie. When I catch up with Kim, I'll tell her to pretend that it's you doing it and not me. It won't be easy, mind you. I mean, a girl like Kim? She'd nev—"

Ron's eyes snapped open to a whirling world blurred by his tears. Force hammered into his swinging knuckles as the dark shape that was Erik stumbled back. His body acted all on its own, lifting him back to his feet and wiping his eyes clear even as Erik splashed to the floor.

"I'm sorry," Ron said, flexing his fist. "You were about to tell me that Kim's never gonna love me." Erik couldn't respond. His head hadn't settled back into its original shape yet. Looming over the drone with folded arms, Ron shot, "Y' wanna finish?"

* * *

Drakken twisted Kim's arm hard, savoring her scream and the creaking of her joint. He leaned over, pressing her face into the floor. The rain swept his raven hair down into his eyes as he said, "Do you know the best part of my epiphany?" He twisted, and she screamed, so he answered for her, "It was figuring out what to do about you. Breaking you down, stripping away your layers." 

One last sliver of rationality in Kim's mind isolated itself from her pain. 'Drakken knows all your moves, girl,' that hauntingly calm voice told her. 'And that ring makes him stronger than you.'

"I'm not giving up," Kim mumbled into the water.

"No, of course not," Drakken said gleefully, never realizing that she wasn't speaking to him. He plunged her face into the floor, watching her bubble, and then let her back up to cough and gag. "Little Kimmie can't give up. It's not in her nature."

'He knows everything you know,' the voice insisted. 'He can do anything you can do. He can do it better.'

Kim felt something pop in her joint. She bit back a scream, and muttered, "Shut up," to the voice.

Drakken laughed. "Why am I telling you? You already know what I found out. I've seen through the straw giant. There's nothing holding her together but a scared, sniveling little girl."

'He won. He finally won.'

"That little girl's spent her whole life crying out for love and attention," Drakken purred into her limp red hair. "She's done everything she can to prove herself to her parents, to her sidekicks, to complete strangers…Filling her pathetic void with hollow accolades so nobody would notice how empty she really is."

'He's right. You are nothing.'

Drakken's lips were practically in her ear. Kim shivered, disgusted, as he said, "So all I had to do was take away those accolades. Take away the mommy and the daddy, keep her pet blond and his weasel busy, and stretch poor Kimmie to her limit."

Kim's eyes snapped open. All of the anger in her trembling body drained away. Hot breath rolled off her ear with words ignored as she ceased her struggling. Her muscles fell limp. Her mind cleared, making way for a single face and a thousand voices that spilled into her body, forcing away the cold and the hurt.

"You think you're all that," Drakken said with a sneer, "But you're nothing without them."

Agonizing pops ran down Kim's spine as she arched her back, bringing her ankles up and over Drakken's shoulder. His boast turned into a yelp at the irresistible pull of her legs. Water blasted around his bulk as he struck the floor. Kim rolled, cringing as her injured arm flared beneath her, and rose in one smooth motion. Gasping breath rolled her shoulders while she waited for Drakken to lumber to his feet.

"Very cute," snapped Drakken, no longer smiling. He plowed forward with fists raised, and bellowed, "But cute tricks won't save you from—"

Kim's silent prayer evaporated alongside Drakken's bluster as she caught his fist in knuckled palms. "Monkey grip!" she called out in an uncertain voice. Her body twisted at painful angles, forcing Drakken to do the same. He flipped upside-down to keep his elbow intact and fell back to the floor, thundering with another wave and losing his breath.

He lay there a moment, blinking through the pelting rain. "What was that?" he uttered in a breathless groan.

A smirk cracked Kim's concern as her suspicions were confirmed. "Monkey Kung Fu," she said.

After another long pause, Drakken said, "You don't know any of that!"

His accusatory tone broadened her smile. "No. That's what makes it so much fun. I get to fake it."

* * *

Hurricane fury gathered itself onto red, swollen knuckles and plunged into Erik's midsection. His exoskeleton warped, rippling around Ron's fist. Biogel leaked from his joints and out his nose. His eyes bugged as he flew back through the air, too stunned to catch himself against the slick, soppy floor. He could only stare up at the silhouette looming over him. 

A halo of water bounced off Ron's body. He couldn't feel it dripping down his scowl, or seeping into his suit. He didn't feel his ribs grind with each labored breath he drew. All that existed for Ron was the seething ball of hate where his heart used to be, and the thing at his feet feeding it. "You only spent two weeks as Kim's new flavor. So let me clue you in to a little fact." Erik tried to roll onto his knees, and bounced back with a splash at Ron's curled foot. As the drone pulled his outsides into their original shape, Ron bent down and told him, "Kim Possible is probably the worst girl on the planet to fall for."

Folded in half, Erik forced his form back to normal. His eyes narrowed. "No more games, freak," he bellowed.

Ron leaned back, feeling the wind and water spray from Erik's kick as it missed his nose by a hair's breadth. The furious expression on his face remained, though his voice kept low and even. "Her head is permanently in the clouds, or looking to the stars…pretty much anywhere and everywhere the rest of her isn't," he explained. Erik's foot returned, pounding into Ron's block. In his moment of imbalance, the drone could not escape Ron's fists as they punctuated his words into Erik's face. "And the only thing that brings here back down to us mere mortals is pretty boys like you."

A garbled snicker escaped Erik's squashed lips. "Your little girlfriend really—"

He lost his mouth somewhere in the folds of his face as Ron spun and drove his heel into Erik's head. The drone stumbled and fell. "I'm gonna spend the rest of my life watching Kim go on to bigger and better things," Ron spat, glaring at Erik with his one good eye.

Unable to see straight, Erik thrashed blindly. He drenched the rain with its own water, throwing the puddle into the air as he struck empty space. "You're a loser, Stoppable," he shrieked. "You're nothing!"

A kick to the face silenced him. "And do you know what?" Ron asked as he rolled Erik over with his foot. "I'm fine with that. Because I know she'll always be there when I need her."

* * *

Monique gripped the shaft of her stolen club and circled with Killigan step for step. Quaking terror shook her whole body. It was all she could do not to throw up, but she kept her face hard, and ignored the bruises barking at her every time she moved. "You're pretty tough," she said, waving the broken end of her club at him. 

"Like I care wha' you think," snapped Killigan. The cut across his face throbbed. It was his only injury, and the price he had paid for underestimating this newcomer. Twin clubs spun in his hands, flashing in the dim fluorescent lighting. He continued their circle, dissecting her body for choice targets to crush with his clubs.

"Probably smart," Monique said, "'Cause I also think you're the ugliest transvestite I've ever seen."

The thick red shrubbery over Killigan's eyes dropped. "You're out o' your league, lassie."

She met his eyes with fire in hers. "No argument here. But you're as crazy as you are tasteless if you think I'm backin' down."

Killigan attacked. Metal sang against metal as Monique high-blocked Killigan's double swing, holding the clubs' heads just inches from her brow. The clubs disappeared in a flash, leaving Monique off-balance for their return. A club head crashed into her side and dropped her to one knee.

Her cry fell silent as he brought his knuckles across her face. She rolled away, unable to hear Killigan's laughter. "I don' need you t' back down. I jus' need you t' break."

He swung a club overhead again. Monique reacted on instinct, raising her arm to stop the swing. The head struck with a vicious crack. She collapsed with a shriek, folding herself around her arm, and sobbed.

The barrel of Killigan's club-rifle pressed into her neck. "Guess wee Kimmie should've chosen her help better. Too bad for you."

A pair of pile drivers dove into Killigan from behind, sending his shot wild. They drove him to the ground and rolled off as his gun skittered away. The golfer tumbled, coming back to his feet in a tizzy, and drew another club from his bag.

The putter produced a long, nasty foil with a twist of its grip. "Tha' was a bad mistake, laddie bucks," he growled.

Jim and Tim spread out, separating Killigan's tempting target in twain. Jim gave Monique a quick look, and then nodded to his brother. To Killigan, he said, "Seems like an even trade."

"Monique saves us," Tim shot, "We save her." His steps kept in time with his twin's, though his eyes never left the hatred roosted in Killigan's gnarled beard. With no Timmunicator and no element of surprise, the blade flickering before him seemed that much more daunting. "You clobber us…"

"—and we clobber you back," finished Jim.

All three combatants sprang into action as one. Jim rolled back, wincing at the wind buffeting him from Killigan's upswing, while Tim rushed in. His clumsy kick caught Killigan's kidney, collapsing him with a cringe and a cry. Tim jumped over his wild swing and backpedaled, while his brother charged and leapt onto Killigan's shoulder.

"Ye wee li'l bairnes can nae beat me!" growled Killigan.

Jim realized his mistake a moment too late as the golfer's enormous grasp clamped around his arms. With a roar, Killigan swung the wailing teen up and around, rocking his feet into his brother's mouth. Tim went down hard while Killigan slammed Jim against the wall.

Air rushed from his body as Jim struck the floor. A rough foot dug into his shoulder and forced him against the wall, pinning him where he sat. As he gasped for air, blinding pain opened his cheek beneath Killigan's sword. He screamed, and then fell silent as the sword point pressed into his neck.

"Look a' that," Killigan said, admiring the wound. "Tha's a beaut."

A dark shape slithered across the floor, drawing Jim's notice. He watched Monique hobble on all threes and reach the discarded club-rifle in the corner, still cradling her broken arm. Her eyes caught his through her tears. She shoved the gun across the floor.

The skittering sound turned Killigan's head and guided his foot. Jim's hand stretched out to catch the gun, missing by a fraction of an inch as Killigan kicked it away, all without letting the tip of his foil waver.

"Weak effort, boy," he said with a snort. Jim's sneer only broadened his smile. His sword point drifted back to the teen's cheek. Jim squirmed and whimpered as the point dug into its handiwork, while Killigan said, "But look on th' bright side. At least you're twins again."

A shadow lurked behind Killigan, collecting the club-rifle beneath the golfer's notice. Jim forced his gaze back to Killigan, and he spat, "Being a twin isn't about looking alike."

Killigan felt pressure behind his knee. He looked back, and swallowed his heart as he saw the other Possible lying prone on the floor. His own rifle rested in the crook of the boy's arm, with the business end pressed into Killigan's leg.

Tim glared at the golfer. "It's about thinking alike," he said, and pulled the trigger.

* * *

"That's a neat toy you've got, I gotta say," Kim called. She forced away everything she knew about tumbling and gymnastics, and flipped through the air with a joy for movement she'd never felt before. 

Drakken's fists couldn't follow, and neither could his eyes. He searched around wildly, and then felt something tapping his back. Whirling around, he caught sight of Kim pulling faces at him before her foot filled his vision with stars. Drakken reeled back, cursing incoherently, forced to listen for Kim's presence as his eyes clamped shut.

"I mean, it must have its limits, sure," she said, curling up and rolling between his legs to dodge his kick. Coming out the other side, Kim gave Drakken's muscular buttocks a slap. When he whirled again, she was already gone, airborne again and knocking on his head like a set of bongos. "But it's still neat."

"Hold still, you little…" he snarled.

Drakken punched again. Kim sidestepped and let the blow pass over her shoulder. Then she gave his bulging bicep a squeeze. "And the ring? Great touch." Tilting her head, she asked, "Does the chip let you do anything I can do? Or anything I 'normally' do?"

A bough-sized backfist swung to split Kim's skull. Kim bounced up and rolled over his arm. He tried to snare her in a gorilla grasp. Kim melted like butter and slipped through his fingers. With a furious roar, he launched into a frenzy, throwing every one of Kim's best moves at her.

"Just the normal moves. Gotcha." Kim went up. Down. Left. Right. Over. Under. Sideways. Anywhere Drakken's blows were, she wasn't. She forced herself away from every iota of her training, recalling instead all the idiotic antics Ron had ever annoyed her with. Those antics carried her away from certain death, turning her into a careening blur and putting red in Drakken's blue cheeks. "Wha! Whu-tah!"

He swung his fist down, shattering the floor. Kim disappeared in the spray, ending up perched atop his shoulders. A yank to his pony tail sent him toppling back. Kim landed atop his chest, driving her heel into his solar plexus. "Clever stuff, Drakken. Top drawer. But see, that's what confuses me." Crouching down, she looked into his beady eyes as the massive chest she sat atop heaved. "How can someone smart enough to make that copycat chip be so stupid?"

* * *

"I've spent my life jumping from one screw-up to the next," Ron said. 

Back on his feet, Erik drove at Ron in a frenzy. He swung with unnatural strength and speed and struck nothing. Ron backed across the floor, calm, collected, slapping Erik's blows aside. For every death stroke Erik failed to land, Ron struck back, keeping the drone enraged.

"Kill you!" roared Erik.

Ron dragged his foot across Erik's face and then stepped back to avoid the retaliatory swing. "And I did it with a smile. It didn't matter how many people laughed at me. She never did."

The wall ended Ron's retreat. He ignored the terrified cries of the hostage held fast next to him. Erik's fist crushed the wall by his head, so he sidestepped. Something bumped into his elbow, drawing his eyes to the missing piece of artwork that had started this whole mess. Ron snatched it from the wall and spun away.

"Kim's done nothing but have my back and save my life since we met."

Splinters exploded from the lacquered wood frame as Ron swung it into Erik's head. Erik collapsed, yowling, until the seeping biogel sealed the cut along his skull. The loosed canvas flapped between the two pieces of frame clutched in Ron's hands as he brought their jagged edges to bear.

"She's been there for me. She was my friend when no one else would be."

Ron slashed Erik's chest open with the broken frame. Then he cut a long line across Erik's forearm as the drone tried to block him. The puddle beneath them turned green with spillage as Erik howled, trying to hold himself together.

"And no prissy pretty boy," Ron said in a rising voice, raising his weapons to strike again, "Is gonna change that."

* * *

"I've never needed anyone's approval." 

Kim jumped off of Drakken just as he regained his breath. He labored to his feet to give chase, but the colossal bulk that had made him the superior fighter slowed him to much for him to keep up.

She ran with reckless speed at the wall. Then she ran up it, feeling the surface shudder with Drakken's impact before she soared overhead. Kim touched down behind him, and gave his rump a swift kick that cracked his skull back into the wall. "And do you know why?" she asked while he shook his eyes back into place. "Because I've always had it. My family has always backed me, win or lose." Watching him stumble dizzily, she couldn't help but laugh. "And as if that wasn't enough, I've had the nicest, sweetest, coolest guy ever who's never let me down."

Drakken lunged drunkenly with claws outstretched. The clumsy attack didn't even come close; Kim ducked underneath and dropped onto her shoulders, driving both boots into the pit of his stomach, and then into his face. Blood gushed onto her soles as his head sailed away, followed close by his massive body.

"By the way," she said, rolling back to her feet, "You stole his brain too, but you didn't download his moves, did you?" Kim cartwheeled around Drakken while he flopped in helpless agony. "Bad move. He's the one kicking your ass right now, not me."

The twisted, purpling ruins of his face fell into confusion. "You…can't…" he gurgled.

Waiting until he tried to sit up, Kim plowed a fist into his side, feeling something give underneath her knuckles. "I've done terrible things to him, and he still loves me."

While he writhed in agony, Kim reached through his mess of a pony tail and patted down his neck. Her face lit up as she discovered a tiny lump and plucked it from his flesh. Drakken's whole body seized up as she tore her skills from his mind and waved them under his nose.

"One day, I'll understand why," said Kim, crushing the Emulator Chip between her thumb and forefinger. Then her smile became a scowl leveled at his horrified, bloodied mess of a face. "But a waste of a person like you never could."

* * *

Erik's scream echoed through the cavernous complex as a spear of broken wood plunged through his chest. Thick, viscous goo poured out onto the hand that drove the frame through his front and out his back, but its owner never noticed. 

"Never love me?" Ron barked into Erik's anguished face. "Kim's the best part of me."

He used the frame as leverage and lifted Erik back to eye level. The wound sealed itself around his weapon, so Ron twisted it to keep the flow of biogel steady, and sap the syntho-drone of his strength.

"You've got it all backwards, Pinocchio," he said. "Kim and I have something that people like you can't touch."

* * *

Drakken managed to stand with the help of Kim's kick. He staggered back, striking the railing with a grunt, and swayed dangerously on shaking legs. "But I was winn—" 

She brought a foot up between his knees as hard as she could. His plea trailed off in a shriek pitched too high for human ears to hear. "Nothing without him?" Kim barked in his anguished face. "I'm everything because of him."

Rubbery hands were helpless to stop her as Kim slipped the ring off of his glove. The Adonis build stretching his lab coat fell away at once, deflating at an alarming rate that put a dark smile on Kim's face. With no martial prowess and no muscle power left, he collapsed onto his knees, and tried to find a voice to beg for mercy. He could only squeak as she grabbed his lapels and held him aloft, glaring into his swollen eyes.

Kim bellowed, "I will—"

* * *

"—never deserve her," Ron bellowed to Erik's lolling head. "And I—"

* * *

"—will never stop trying to live up—"

* * *

"—to the faith she puts in me, or the—"

* * *

"—strength he gives me to stand—"

* * *

"—up against pretty-boy nobodies like you." 

"No!" the shaky syntho-drone squeaked.

Ron brought the other piece of frame across Erik's chin. A gushing wound opened up, then widened as Run plunged his fingers into the lime green mass beneath it. As Erik fell back to the floor, Ron yanked his hand upward, closing and averting his eyes. Warm liquid poured over his hand as its burden grew lighter, but he couldn't bring himself to look. Only when he felt the last of the biogel filter out of the rubbery exoskeleton did he let it flop onto the floor.

Rain washed Ron clean as he cracked an eye. Fresh bile bubbled into his throat at the sight of the deflated drone and its flap of a face floating atop a watered-down puddle of its own innards, but he forced it down. After a long moment of staring, he could only think of one thing to say.

"Guess you're not so pretty after all."

* * *

Drakken shrieked as Kim pulled him around. She kicked a section of the railing out, and then swung him over the edge. A distant clang of the broken rail hitting ground drove home to Drakken the truth that Kim's tired, trembling arms were all that separated him from certain death. 

"The people that love me make me what I am," she said with eerie calm. Her grasp slipped an inch, eliciting a screech from Drakken that she ignored. "So what am I?"

"Please," he sniveled, feeling himself drop another inch. "You can't."

"What am I?" she asked again in a deadly voice.

Dripping, shaking, Drakken stared into her hard eyes and knew he could never win. He could not break her, could not beat her, or outwit her, or overpower her. NO matter what he did, Kim Possible would never fall to him or anyone like him. The strength in her eyes went on forever.

And he realized this as his life hung in her hands, which he had spent the last week exhausting as he had given her every reason to kill him.

In a small, stammering voice, Drakken answered, "A-all that?"

Kim's face twisted as she spun at the hips, throwing Drakken over her shoulder. He screamed and thudded into the floor, kicking up a powerful spray as he tumbled to a halt next to Shego's insensate body.

For a moment, Kim stood there, heaving, trying not to pass out as the last of her adrenaline ebbed. Every raindrop that struck her felt like a hammer's blow. She felt cold, and longed for rest in the one set of arms that could warm her and comfort her like no other. Instead, she just glared at Drakken's battered, unconscious face.

"Damn straight," she snapped, and fell to one knee.

**To Be Concluded**


	14. Where It All Began

There are so many things I can talk about when I think back on what went into The Power Trilogy. I could talk about how it reflected a dark time in my own life, and helped me come to terms with one of my demons. I could talk about how it gave me an outlet, how it kept me going through times when I wanted to give up. This story has taught me so much about writing that there's no concise way of summing it all up.

But what deserves the most attention, indeed, what needs to be addressed more than anything else, are the people that helped keep this story running. For all the fans out there that corresponded with me, for all the reviewers that praised me, for all the critics that challenged me, and for all the readers that simply read this story: you deserve part of the credit. You all helped shape this story, whether you are aware of it or not, and you turned it into something larger than even I imagined. I could write volumes on and to you all, and never come close to saying what deserves to be said. So instead, I'll use just two of the many words you've all got coming:

Thank you.

* * *

_A zephyr ruffled the leaves overhead, whispering words of confidence to Kimmie Possible while she sat beneath the old tree and waited. Her knees bounced with impatience inside her ducky overalls. She had made sure her mom had washed them for today, exactly one week since she had worn them last. This time, she held her chin high, daring any of the other children on the playground to make fun of them._

_Her eyes danced through the schoolyard. Laughter and play met her search, but never in the scrubby, freckled vessel that she sought. She caught the eye of that mean Bonnie girl, who gave her a nasty look before continuing her game of hopscotch. Kimmie glared back before continuing her hunt._

_At long last, she saw the schoolhouse door open, and her hero appeared. The little boy was ushered out by wrinkly hands. He cast an indifferent look over his shoulder, and then looked up. Kimmie couldn't hear him across the playground, but it looked like he was talking to someone much taller than him, someone Kimmie didn't see. She had not time to wonder, though, as he began making his way across the playground. He kept talking as his eyes drifted to the ground._

_Kimmie's heart thundered. She tried to stand, but her knees came down with an acute case of wobbles, rooting her to her root. Saliva fled, leaving her mouth dry and silent. The dryness spread to her throat as she tried calling to him. Only a squeak emerged. Desperate, she managed a small, trembling wave, but it failed to draw his eyes from the sod. Before she could gather voice enough to shout, 'hey,' he vanished into the crowd._

_The debilitating bashfulness faded as Kimmie leaned on her knees and sniffled. Since that mean Bonnie girl had told everyone that Kimmie had cooties, nobody talked to her. Kimmie had hoped that her hero would, but now she couldn't even call out to him. He had just endured the harshest punishment known to preschool-kind—a week without recess—and she couldn't even be brave enough to yell. She didn't even know his name._

_Kimmie sniffled again, and dragged a sleeve across her nose. "Pro'ly doesn't like me anyway," she told herself._

_"Who doesn't like you?"_

_Her head snapped up to find the boy in question standing before her. Dark brown eyes stared at her as he tilted his head, watching her fumble to her feet. She tried to think of something to say to his dish-like ears. "H-hi," she said, blushing._

_"Hi." His quizzical gaze fell upon the ducks marching on Kimmie's overalls, and he smiled. "I 'member you. You're that muddy girl."_

_Kimmie's blush worsened. "My name's Kim Possible," she said, clumsily extending a hand like she'd seen her parents do._

_The tilt in his head returned as his brow furrowed. Her hand went unanswered. "Kim Popsicle?" he asked. "That's a funny name."_

_Apples envied the color in Kimmie's cheeks. She shook her head, and said, "Poss-ible." When his confusion continued, she blew an impatient breath and dredged up her stuttered recollection of the alphabet song. "It's easy, 'kay? Pee...um, Oh—"_

_"Kay...Pee?" he repeated._

_Spelling clearly wasn't her hero's strong point. "Close enough," Kimmie said._

_His face brightened. "I'm Ron. Ron Stoppable."_

_Kimmie giggled. "Stoppable? Now that's funny."_

_"Says you, Kim Popsicles!" retorted Ronnie._

_Her giggle fell quiet. Ronnie squirmed uncomfortably as she brought her face close to his, piercing him with jade opals of dazzling clarity. "Why'd you help me? You got 'n trouble, an' you don' even know me."_

_Ronnie bit his lip as he looked anywhere but into her eyes. No matter where his chocolate gaze went, her round, inquisitive face was all he saw. "I 'unno," he muttered. "You looked like you needed help. Nobody likes me either, so..." Unable to escape, he let his eyes drift back to her. "Rufus said to," he added._

_Kimmie Possible stared into his big brown eyes and she felt a strange, warm feeling well up in her stomach. The curious warmth flitted through the rest of her, ending with the goofy smile spread across her cherubic cheeks. "You're weird," she told him, "But I like you."_

_Her arms caught Ronnie too quick for him to escape, and pulled him into a hug. Ronnie yelped as her lips pressed into his cheek. He struggled to break free, and wailed, "Are you trying to kill me?"_

* * *

**Kim Possible  
The Power of Friendship**

_by Cyberwraith9_

* * *

Three sets of feet swung from the bumper of a parked ambulance amidst the turmoil of an invasion, shielding themselves from sheets of icy rain, and reclaiming the feeling in their innards with Styrofoam cups of steaming coffee. Emergency blankets shrouded their shoulders, doing little to ease their shivers. They watched armored agents charge in and out of the broken entrance of the Observatory with rifles at the ready and EMTs in tow, ready to find any injured individuals inside, and injure certain others as the situation called for it.

Kim knew she should be worried, but wasn't. The spick-and-span soldiers kicking up a spray of mud may have thought they were marching into the unknown, but Kim knew what they would find. Maybe it was the numbing exhaustion at her core, or the painkillers lumbering through her bloodstream, but she didn't have an ounce of worry left in her. She let her gaze drift away from the burnt-out door and stared instead at the haggard wretch rippling in the surface of her coffee. 'I'd sure hate to be you right now,' she thought at the wavering girl.

A bobbing flash of red caught Kim's attention from the blacks and golds of Ron's battle suit. She eyed the torn boots cinched in place with scavenged metal cords. A spark of realization broke the dull emerald sheen over her eyes, and she asked, "Are those...are those syntho-drone boots?"

Ron glanced down at them through his one good eye. He traded poignant looks with Josh, who sat between the partners in silent awe. The knowing, half-fearful look Josh answered him with eased Ron's dread; Josh wouldn't tell, and so Ron didn't have to. "Technically," said Ron, wriggling the borrowed boots, "I think you could call them his 'feet.' Erik was cool with it, though."

Kim made a face. "That's gross."

"Believe me," he mumbled, "It beats the alternative."

Josh decided to pipe in, no longer able to contain the wash of emotions his terrifying, exciting, horrific, spectacular ordeal had pumped into him. "You should have seen it, Kim! Ron was...was...incredible! I've never seen anything like it." With a thoughtful frown, he added, "I hardly saw any of it at all, they were moving so fast. But it was incredible!"

Cheshire delight curled Kim's lips as she stole a glance at Ron over the top of her cup. "I know," she murmured.

There was no time for Ron to wonder at her odd expression as a troupe of soldiers marched out of the Observatory. They flanked a pair of gurneys under the care of more EMTs, and guarded the way to one of the other vehicles in the convoy. Kim caught sight of blues and greens strapped to the gurneys through the gaps in their entourage before she heard the tortured voice rise up.

"Kim Possible!" Drakken's voice broke through the pounding of the rain on the ambulance roof. "You haven't heard the last from me. I'll be back. I'll be back!"

Loading them into the back of a van, the military escort broke long enough for Kim to glimpse Drakken and the unconscious Shego. He glared at her with the purest hate through his swollen mask of bruises. Were he not strapped down, Kim imagined he would have fought his way to her with every last vile breath in him. But even without the small army of soldiers on hand, or the deadly ninja sipping coffee not three feet away, the thought of Drakken attacking didn't spark the least amount of apprehension in her deadened innards. She had outgrown him.

"I'd be more worried about what happens when Shego wakes up, Blueberry," Ron hollered through a funneled hand. Drakken's incoherent ranting drew a slight laugh from the three teens before the van doors slammed closed.

Their hollow mirth fell silent as Doctor Director appeared in the entryway, leading another team out of the Observatory. Rumpled business casual stood out among the stark GJ uniforms, sagging in the downpour. The former hostages spread out at their rescuers' commands to the waiting arms of relief teams. One pair stood out from the rest of the shell-shocked civilians with their tiny smiles. Gangly teens flanked them, one to each parent, speaking in excited tones.

Kim leapt from the bumper, tossing aside her blanket and beverage. Her leaden body didn't feel an inch of the distance; one minute, she was sitting, and the next, she was collapsing into the arms of her family. They came together in a single, sobbing hug, too happy to care about the rain, or the armed soldiers, or their injuries.

"I'm so glad you're all right," Kim said into her father's shoulder.

His hand ran through her soaked tangle of hair, holding her close. "That's our line, Kimmie-Cub," he said, and kissed the top of her head.

Gentle hands lifted Kim's head away from Mister Possible's embrace. Kim hissed as her mother examined the bruises on her face with a stern, detached expression. "You'll need X-rays," the matronly surgeon noted. "These could be fractures."

"Mom..."

Taking her daughter's hand, Missus Possible watched her daughter wince. "Not broken. Could be a hyperextension. We should—"

"Mom!" Kim snatched her mother's hands away and drew them into her own. The businesslike expression on Missus Possible's face sobered into an unreadable wall as Kim squeezed their fingers together. "Mom," the teen said with wavering eyes, "I'm so sorry. I am so, so sorry."

Missus Possible froze. Mother and daughter stood together in absolute silence while their men gave each other confused looks. Guilt dawned in Missus Possible's expression to mirror Kim's. Her professionalism cracked as she sobbed, "My poor baby!" and crushed her daughter to her breast, where both of them could cry openly.

"Figures," said Jim, snorting. "We did all the real work."

"Yeah, she just had to play with Shego, as usual," Tim grumbled. Both he and his brother lost their grump as Mister Possible caught them by the shoulders and pulled them close, laughing a father's laugh.

A world away, Josh felt the pull of the emotional scene. It appealed to the artist in him, calling him forward for a closer look. He rose, transfixed, but a finger caught him by the belt loop and pulled him back. "Nu-uh," said Ron, shaking his head. "That's RSVP right there. Reserved Strictly For Possibles." The joy and tears traded amongst his second family tempted Ron too. Like Josh, he wanted more than anything to be the one holding Kim. But he wasn't, and he wouldn't be.

Josh didn't fight him. Nor did he bother to hide his disappointment. "That's RSFP," he said.

"I just got punched in the face a lot. Shut up." Ron squinted through the dispersing crowd to the third wave working their way out the charred opening. Another pair of gurneys led the way, carrying two still figures that yanked Ron out of his seat faster than Josh could follow. Hobbling through the mud, Ron ignored the edgy honor guard and the fussy EMTs, and flanked the gurney with the friendly face twisted with pain. "Monique!"

"Sir, please," the EMT pushing he pleaded, speeding up to make it through the rain as quickly as possible, "She's suffered a compound fracture of the humerus."

Dizzy eyes squinted up at him, struggling to focus through the water pooling in their sockets. "Hear that, handsome?" she croaked. "Don't bother being funny. I won't get it until they fix my humor-whatsit."

Ron limped alongside her gurney, trying his best to keep up. Monique was bandaged, blanketed, and clearly drugged. "Mon, you're gonna be fine," he said, trying to break through her medicated haze. "We'll have you back on your feet in no time. Be a shame if I lost my dance partner, right?"

As unworthy as the thought was, Ron couldn't help but think it: Monique had no business being there. She had only come at his and Kim's request as backup. What they affectionately dubbed 'part-time help' had gotten her seriously hurt, all because he was no longer enough help for Kim. If he had only—

"Hey, Ron," Monique said, derailing his train of thought. Her good arm slipped from beneath the blankets, clutching a mass of shattered purple plastic and circuitry boards. The mess fell into Ron's grasp by force, shoved there by Monique with the last of her strength. She muttered, "I'm gonna need a new Monunicator."

Ron's steps waned. He watched the gurney wheel off toward one of the waiting ambulances, and he squeezed the remains. "I'll see what Wade can whip up," he called.

"'s still a stupid name," she mumbled, falling unconscious.

Shaking his head, Ron stuffed the busted device into his suit, and vowed to stop underestimating his friends. As he did, a brisk hand clapped him on the shoulder, turning him around. He stood eyes-to-eye with Doctor Director as she addressed him from the safety of a black poncho, wearing a smile far too large to conceive of in the wake of everything that had happened. "The little Possibles went on and on about how she helped them take out Duff Killigan. From what I hear, she has good instincts."

"What happened to Killigan?" asked Ron.

The devil in question rolled by on the second gurney, moaning softly through his drug-induced sleep. A large red stain marred his white sheet where his knee would have been. Even unconscious, he looked to be in tremendous pain.

"Cut him off at the knee, so to speak," the Doctor clipped. "That's a shame, really. They say the golf game is all in the legs. Wouldn't know. I don't get the chance to play."

Normally the source of the tasteless jokes, Ron found he couldn't stomach them at the moment. He didn't even smile. "Booyah," he uttered tonelessly.

She nodded, and threw an arm around his shoulder. The miniscule addition of weight nearly toppled Ron from his shaky perch atop gelatin legs. "This city owes you a tremendous debt, Stoppable. You and your team." She led him back toward the heart of the convoy, where the majority of the rescue effort buzzed in its cleanup of the battle site. "If you need anything, anything at all, I want you calling Global Justice first."

Limp, swinging red caught Ron's eye amidst the drab black hive, drawing his gaze back to the Possibles' reunion. Close by, he watched Josh watch Kim. All of a sudden, the rain felt colder than he could stand. "I could use a ride out of here," he told Doctor Director.

The spymaster nodded. "We'll have all of you out of here as soon as we can—"

"No. Right now. Just me." Turning away, Ron said to himself, "I think it's time I bowed out."

Doctor Director gave him an odd look. In the end, though, she didn't question him, and instead called for one of her subordinates. As Ron followed the man in black to a waiting SUV, he fought the temptation to turn around. He climbed in and slammed the passenger door closed, dripped a small ocean all over its leather interior, and never saw the flashing green distress that watched while he pulled away and drove back down the mountain.

* * *

_"So, how's the arm?"_

Wade smiled up from the confines of his tiny screen. The Kimmunicator sat atop the dresser in Kim's old room, keeping its camera angled at the ceiling while Kim struggled into her shirt. The bulky cast at her elbow fought her every step of the way.

It had been two days since the fight at the Observatory. Two days, and Kim had yet to catch her breath. Two days spent, first in the hospital, and then recovering at home, kept under house arrest by motherly worry. Two days without perilous missions, romantic drama, deadly combat, or exhaustive globetrotting. Another minute of peace, and Kim was certain she would lose her mind.

Popping her head through the gaps in her old green tank top, Kim sighed. "Entombed," she groused, knocking the cast against the dresser. Its solid clunk rattled Wade's image. "I have to keep the cast on for another three weeks. If I'm a good girl," she said in a sing-song voice, "I get to upgrade to a sling."

He chuckled. _"You sound thrilled,"_ he said.

"What about you?" Kim asked, clasping her jeans one-handed. Secure in her clothes, she picked up the Kimmunicator and tried returning his smile. "You're back online even quicker than I thought."

Wade's smile doubled, making up for Kim and her lackluster efforts. _"You aren't the only one who's collected favors over the years,"_ he said with dancing eyebrows. Then his expression sobered. _"So, you're okay?"_

She shrugged. The gesture woke a battalion of twinges within her body and ordered them on a forced march. It took more effort than she'd have liked to hide the pain behind another smile. "Okay, I guess. Recovery's just part of the job. I'll just have to take it easy for a while." With an empty chuckle, she added, "Maybe that makes it the hardest part of the job."

Silence rang through his pointed stare. _"Are you okay,"_ he repeated slowly.

Kim blinked and sagged. Her legs struck the bed, and she fell back onto its downy sheets, staring back at Wade. Quiet overtook her, outside and within. She relived the week in vivid detail, all in the blink of her trembling eye.

"Is it okay that I'm still scared?" she asked. The fright haunting those words twisted her stomach. "I mean, we won, right? So why am I still afraid?"

_"You almost died,"_ Wade reminded her. _"Drakken threw everything he could at you. That's gotta be freak-out-worthy."_

A snide, nasally voice whispered in her ear. Kim could feel his fetid breath molest her lobe as he taunted her. Every haunting word he had said still resonated like crystal in her mind. She remembered the helplessness she had felt, and then realized that much of it was with her still.

"In a way, I think Drakken was right," Kim mused aloud. "He knew me so well, he was able to play me like a pro. I wasn't 'The Girl Who Can Do Anything' anymore. I was just Kim. When he realized that, he almost won." Looking at Wade, she said with a smile, "He just couldn't take away all the strength you guys give me."

Wade didn't answer right away. He sat there, considering Kim's face in deep, serious thought. When he did speak, it was in a low tone devoid of his trademark joviality. _"Kim, hands down, you are the bravest person I know."_

"Flatterer," she said with a smirk.

_"But you're still just a person. And if you think leaning on us makes you weaker, or more beatable, you're wrong. Me, Ron, Monique, your brothers..."_ He struggled with the words. _"We do this with you because we believe in you, not because we think you need us. And if we can help in any way..."_

The faces of those who believed in her flashed by, ending with the one person she had missed more than any over the last two days as Kim rose from the bed. Nips and tugs left over from her trials rose with her, overpowered by a new imperative. "I've got to sign off, Wade," she said. "There's something I have to do."

He nodded, satisfied. Kim couldn't be certain, but she thought she saw something hidden behind his smile. _"You know where to find me,"_ he said before winking out.

Kim started to put the device back in her pocket. As she caught sight of herself in the mirror, the flash of powder blue gave her pause. Terrible weight clutched her one good arm while she watched her reflection heft its burden. She left the Kimmunicator on her dresser without another moment's hesitation. Bereft of its weight, Kim glided down the stairs, feather-light.

Arrhythmic pounding pulled Kim from her beeline toward the front door. She followed the din back into the kitchen and poked her head in. A giggle crawled up her throat as she watched her father wrestle a new cabinet onto the wall. Jim and Tim stood behind him with hammers at the ready and matching expressions of uncertainty. Behind them, Missus Possible tried coaching her husband from behind a set of directions.

"I'm heading out," Kim said. Mister Possible's only reply was to groan s he balanced the cabinet atop his head and shoved it into place. With an entreating look, she asked, "Are you sure I can't help? You look—"

Her father's sharp grunt answered. "'No heavy lifting' means no heavy lifting, Kimmie-Cub. You go on out and have some safe, non-strenuous fun."

"Yeah, Gimpy," Tim taunted her. "Go on."

"We got things here, Gimpy," said Jim.

Kim gave them a sisterly look that they ate up, and then watched them rush forward to catch their father and his wobbling load. She grabbed her mother's eye and asked a wordless question.

"I'm sure you have somewhere better to be, Kim," Missus Possible said. "Go ahead."

That knowing smile she gave Kim, so similar to Wade's, made Kim touch her face and wonder if they saw something she didn't. She backed down the hall, wiping her expression clear with her pal. But her blank face fell prey to surprise when she opened the front door to leave.

"Oh. Hi." Josh Mankey shifted nervously at the threshold of her home. His knuckles lowered, no longer needing to knock, and twisted at his side instead. Frosted locks dipped into his face as he bobbed his head, and said, "How are you?"

Speech fled from Kim at an alarming rate. "Good," she said with the last of her voice. A heavy feeling poured into her stomach.

He swept a hand through his perfect hair, and smiled a perfect smile. "Great. I stopped by to see how you were doing...and to talk."

The leaden lump inside of her grew. "Josh—"

Always a gentleman, Josh nevertheless held up a hand. "Please. I've put a lot of thought into this." A chuckle pulled his weak smile apart. "If I don't get through this now, I don't think I ever will." With a deep breath, he began, "Back in high school, I didn't really get this 'hero' thing you do. I thought it was cool, don't get me wrong. But...It was intimidating, you know? I wasn't just dating the most popular girl in school. I was with a national icon!"

'The most popular?' she thought, bewildered by this sudden confession.

"But seeing you and Ron fight made it all click," said Josh, tapping his head. "I get it now. Back in high school, I made a mistake, but now...I want to be on-board with everything. Kim the beauty," he said, taking the hand of her good arm. Then he took her casted arm, and added, "And Kim the hero."

Kim looked down at their hands. "I don't know what to say," she admitted.

"I finally feel like I'm ready to be a part of your world, Kim," Josh said. He squeezed her hands. "And I want you to be a part of mine."

"Josh, that..." Kim dragged her eyes back up to his. The hopeful twinkle she found there struck her to the core, threatening to turn her knees to jelly. She grasped his shoulders to keep upright, and gasped when his hands slid onto her waist. "That was everything I ever wanted to hear from you." With a mirthful smile, she said, "I think you just made most of my girlhood dreams come true."

The humor left her face as Josh's eyes swallowed her whole. Staring into his expectant expression, Kim knew what to do. With a silent prayer for forgiveness, she closed her eyes, leaned forward, and pressed her lips to his.

Her heart fluttered as he began kissing her back, running his smooth fingers across the small of her back. A rhapsody of bliss played the pain from Kim's body. She leaned into his taught fighter's build. Her hands ran up his neck to caress the freckles on his cheeks, and tease the edge of his messy blond hair. As she pulled away, her opening eyes half-expected to stare back into deep brown wells, even as she gazed into Josh's baby blues.

"But when I kiss you," she said through an apologetic smile, "It isn't your lips I feel."

* * *

"So there he was, totally melting all over my feet," said Ron, stretching out in his earthen seat and propping his enormous new shoes atop a root. The leafy canopy bathed him in shade while a bright sun baked the empty lot. "So I say to all the snot leakin' out of him, I say, 'You're not so pretty now, asshole. Better clean yourself up, 'cause I'm not gonna.'"

Ron treated himself to a luxurious stretch and a yawn. He scratched at his face, careful of the great purple ring around his eye. Every move he made set his ribs aflame, which made his inherent laziness a momentary asset. The hardest part was ignoring the itch of his taped chest. Then again, it helped keep his mind off 'other' problems.

Patting the root at his elbow, he said, "I don't know why I haven't done this sooner. You're a really good listener."

"I'll say."

The friendly voice snapped Ron's head around to the sidewalk at the edge of the empty lot. A dazzling beacon framed in bouncing red shone upon him, a beautiful light that brought him to his feet without pain or pause. His red jersey snagged on the trunk, causing him to stumble as she approached.

Smiling warmly, Kim helped him free of the trunk and brushed his shirt clean. Ron's face burned at her touch—gentle enough to leave his smaller bruises silent, wise enough to leave his larger pains alone—and helped her straighten himself out. "KP," he said, stepping back from her hands. "You okay?"

Kim looked him up and down. "Getting better," she said. "How about you?"

"I can see out of this eye again," he said, rolling his gaze around as if to prove it so. His eyes wandered everywhere else, but Kim's face was all he saw. None of her dark bruises remained from their epic battle; she had make-up on, and he knew it couldn't be for his benefit. Through all their adventures, Kim had never been bashful about her appearance, least of all around him. She wouldn't start for his benefit. "See well enough to notice your Nearly Nude there, anyway," he said.

Kim brushed the foundation on her face. She looked away to hide from Ron's probing gaze, lest it snatch a secret from her eyes. "How's Rufus?" she asked.

His eyes relented, and his hand tugged at the flap on his cargo pocket. Snoring escaped its confines as he checked on a slumbering pink puddle. "Doing what he does best." Without the slightest change in tone, he asked, "Is Josh all right?"

Once more, she fled his gaze. "He's okay."

They stood there a moment, each looking down at the other's feet. If Kim noticed anything different, she didn't voice it. After a spell, they looked up at each other, wearing identical smirks. "Did we cover all the meaningless chitchat?" asked Ron.

"I think so."

"Right. You want to get to brass tacks?"

Kim nodded. "Brass tacks," she echoed. Dread seeped into her heart, festering as the merry creases in Ron's face smoothed out, and the curl of his lips straightened. "So, what's the plan?" she asked as casually as she could, masking the wounds her own words knifed into her. "Still plan on leaving?"

"Not right away," he said, fighting to hold his gaze with hers. "Not forever." Hands in pockets, he said, "I just need some time away to clear my head."

'Worst liar on the planet,' thought Kim, giving silent thanks for it. "Do I get my five minutes?"

Ron couldn't quite smother his cringe. Spreading his arms, he said, "You've got me now."

Leaves rustled overhead as Kim bit back the thousand prefabricated words she had spun in her mind since last she stood beneath that very tree. Realizing what she had didn't prepare her for this moment. Endless planning and scripting dried up in her mouth, leaving it chalky. In the end, all Kim could say was, "Ron, I'm in love."

A sardonic laugh snorted out Ron's nose. "That falls squarely into the 'No Duh' category."

Kim shook her head. "It's not that simple. It can't be," she insisted. "I didn't understand it myself. In a lot of ways, I still don't." Her heart pounded faster at his furrowing brow. The rush of blood lent haste to her words. "At first, I tried to ignore it. Then I tried to control it. But now..."

"How long have you known?" Ron murmured. His eyes trailed back to the ground.

Cotton coated her tongue. "Almost a year," she said, and then, "Maybe longer."

'Humph. '_We grew apart'_ my fabulous fanny,' he thought.

"Ron, you and I will always be tighter than tight. You know that." Kim bit her lip again, this time out of fear. She could feel the young man before her slipping away without his moving an inch. All she wanted was to reach for him. But she couldn't. Not yet. "And we've been through so much together."

The ugliest smile Kim had ever seen ghosted across Ron's face. "No offense, KP," he said, "But this has to be about the dumbest 'Let's Be Friends' speech in recorded history."

Kim couldn't help but snicker along with him. Brushing a lock of hair from her face, she said, "It's important, Ron, because I have to betray you." Watching the wind sweep out of his sails helped make her smile real. "Part of the reason I've been so afraid of my own feelings is because I didn't want things between us to change."

Every last ounce of humor abandoned Ron, leaving him alone, afraid, and defenseless. He shrunk before Kim's eyes, losing every wall and layer that composed his mask—the thing he let the world laugh at so he could laugh with them—fell away. In a small, trembling voice, he told her, "Things have already changed."

"That's right," she whispered back. "Things are so different now. And this will only change them more. But I have to give it a chance. I have to give 'him' a chance." Bending low, she dipped her face into his view, and said, "I know you understand, Ron. Because you were willing to risk our friendship because of how you feel about me. Right?"

A universe of longing came into being and snuffed out in Ron's stunned silence. He lifted his chin as Kim straightened. She trapped his eyes wit hers, holding the rest of him by proxy. Ron wanted to laugh her question away, to say whatever it would take to make things the way they were.

"It's hard, KP," he said instead. "Seeing you every day, being with you, wanting...more."

The quiver in his voice shattered Kim's heart. "You never said anything before last week," she said. Her clenching throat made it difficult to speak.

Another smile crossed his features, a real smile that surprised Kim. "That's even harder, isn't it? I mean, how do I tell you all that without making it sound like I have some kind of grandfather clause on you? I don't want to guilt you and I don't want to inherit you."

The world around her blurred out in a wave of heat. She watched him vanish into a salty smear, and said, "What do you want now?"

Ron watched tears trail down. For a moment, he thought he might cry as well. But seeing her there, trembling, hanging on his every word out of a great, nameless fear, he felt a sudden calm settle over his soul. Strength returned to his voice as he said, "I know the score now, Kim. Guys like me don't end up with people like you. I just want you to be happy.

Without a sound, the two friends stepped together, desperate for each other's arms. Kim wrapped around his neck and cried into his shoulder, squeezing even tighter as she felt his arms around her waist. His soft skin grew slick with her tears as she breathed deep of his scent and drew strength from his soul.

"I will always be there for you," whispered Kim. "It doesn't matter what happens. You're my go-to guy."

Ron pressed his face into her waves of ginger. With a kiss to the top of her head, he said, "I know." The strawberry scent revived something in Ron that he knew he could no longer carry. Against every impulse, he pulled her away, offering her an encouraging look. "Feel better?" he asked.

Kim laughed, and mopped her eyes with the back of her hand. "Much," she said.

He dragged his shirt collar across his neck while Kim composed herself. The tears still in her eyes made them sparkle, like jade caught in morning dew, keeping a last, lingering shred of longing alive in him. It burned in his stomach, where he doubted it would ever go away. He hoped it wouldn't. "So," he asked, "Have you talked to him yet?"

"Not yet," she said, sniffling.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Ron forced himself to say, "You should probably strike while the iron's hot. Heh. Before he loses interest."

Kim grinned. "Yeah."

Ron stumbled back and caught Kim against his chest as she leapt into his arms. His question became lost in her lips, which found his with a passionate need. Shock froze his body, leaving Kim to kiss away the numbness in his mouth. The hunger and fervor in her touch blew through all his resistance. He was helpless.

His body took over, kissing back on instinct, as his mind tried to sort out what was happening. Dream and reality ran together and swirled in his eyes. He clamped them shut, ignored them, and grasped Kim by the waist. Real or unreal, if this never happened again, he wanted to remember everything: the softness of her lips, the gentle caress of her fingertips, the way her hair tickled his nose. Ron kissed her as she kissed him, with desperation and desire too great to contain any longer.

They parted with a gasp, hearts hammering. Ron staggered back and clutched at his hair to quell the spinning of his head. Kim's fearful fingers dug into his shoulder to keep him close. The moment her breath returned, she pressed herself to his chest and spoke in a ghost of her strong voice.

"I don't want to guilt you," she whispered into his ratty red jersey. "And I don't want to inherit you. If you feel like you have to go, then go." She felt him try to step back, and hooked her good arm around his neck. Squeezing her eyes shut, she said, "But if you still want me, I'm yours. I love you, Ron."

"KP..."

"I love you so much," she said, feeling his jersey soak beneath her face. "And I was so stupid, and I wouldn't blame you one bit if you left. But I love you. I love you," she murmured. As she pulled away, she blinked the tears free from her vision, letting them roll forgotten down her smirking cheeks as she gazed up into his silent shock. "Was that weird?"

Ron's lips flapped. His voice followed several seconds later. "Kinda. Kinda really," he stammered.

"Bad weird?" she breathed.

Terror squeezed Kim's chest like a vise. She couldn't breathe. The world came crashing down around her. And then Ron brought it back with a single touch.

Ron wiped Kim's tears away with his thumb, leaving a smile in their wake. The shock hadn't left his face. He probed her eyes, waiting for some sign that this wasn't real. "It's me?" he said at last.

With a sniff and a laugh, Kim said, "It's you. It's been you for a long time, Ron."

"Okay, now I'm confused." Ron's hands encircled her waist, drawing Kim close. She rested her weary head on his chest, listening to the beat of his racing heart. "We're best friends," he said aloud. "Only, we're in love, too."

"Pretty much," said Kim. She felt a stirring lift the weight from her innards. An irrepressible smile lit her face as she felt her butterflies return and swarm through her stomach.

His brow creased, and he hummed thoughtfully, drawing a sniffled giggle from Kim. "Except we've both felt pretty much the same for a while now."

"Yeah," she said, nuzzling her cheek into his shoulder.

Ron looked down, taking Kim's eyes into his. There was no more doubt between them. Those limpid pools of green filled him with warmth that swept his aches and fears away. His heart slowed. His mind cleared. Staring into Kim as she stared back into him, he felt a great sense of peace flow out of her and touch every part of him. But his mouth couldn't leave well enough alone. "So I don't get it," he said. "How is it gonna be any different?"

Kim leaned in on her tiptoes and showed him.

**The End**


End file.
